Crush
by the ocean
Summary: "It's a road movie, a double-feature, two boys striking out across America, while desire, like a monster, crawls up out of the lake with all of us watching, with all of us wondering if these two boys will find a way to figure it out." Canonverse multichap focusing on events from October 15, 2009 (Ch. 66) onwards. Mello/Matt, some OCs. Slow burn.
1. Chapter 1

co-created/edited by ~congenital.

enjoy.

* * *

**PART ONE. **

**LOS ANGELES**

If it weren't for the six o'clock news, he would have had no idea what time it was.

His windows were boarded up so he couldn't see outside, and he had spent what felt like the past hour puking his guts out in his tiny little 38 sq ft bathroom, one hand gripping the toilet seat, the other hand gripping the lip of the bathtub, dried soapy grime rubbing against his palm because he hadn't cleaned the place since he moved in.

He could only vaguely hear the TV outside as he not-so-dry heaved, splashing bile and water into the porcelain bowl beneath him. Something about the hijacked American Airlines plane again, SE something-or-other, some Japanese dude got dropped off — /b/ loved that guy. Media blackouts, something something. Kidnapping of some girl or whatever. Kira again, complete with the death roll-call as a woman's voice read out every name that had been executed in the past twenty-four hours with as much vitality as a dry erase board.

Well, despite the emptying of his stomach contents, he was feeling pretty good. Whenever he threw up, that was when he knew Andre wasn't ripping him off like those Ecuadorians back in Phoenix did. It meant that it had been so long since his body was spoiled by this potency that it had little choice but to spew chunks.

A pretty damned good thing, all things considered.

His body told him that that was enough now, and he leaned back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He flushed, reaching for toilet paper to wipe the taste of throw-up from his fingers and his lips, but the roll rattled emptily and all he felt was cardboard.

Whatever. He could do that later.

He sat back on his knees for a minute longer, gauging to see if the nausea was going to pass, and then feeling self-satisfied when it did. He pulled himself up against the bathtub, and then, suddenly, his phone was ringing. He tried to pull his cellphone out from his back pocket, but it wasn't that one — the ringtone was muffled like it was coming through his room, an old Hatsune Miku song that came out a year ago.

Which meant his Blackbird phone.

But why? Most of the Blackbird guys were otherwise unreachable, and the two that still roamed the earth had him on ICQ, IRC, MSN, AIM, AOL, even Steam. Actually, the only time he'd ever even used his Blackbird Nokia was when he was dealing with clients, but that seemed unlikely, especially since he'd been MIA since the summer of 2008.

He scratched his head as he turned to leave the bathroom to investigate further, but spinning like that caused a new wave of vertigo to wash over him. He held onto his towel rack, sank back onto his knees and returned to the toilet bowl like an ex girlfriend, bowing his head towards the seat and gagging.

The ringtone stopped before it looped, cutting itself off like a crank call. And maybe that was all it was — he didn't really care.

There it was, more bile and more frothy saliva. Jesus, any more and his throat was going to burn off. He coughed violently at his final heave into his hands, wiping his palms against his jeans when he was done.

Yep, he had to thank Andre next time. This shit was really fucking good.

* * *

Everybody knew Rod Ross. He was the kingpin of the California mob, royalty in Los Angeles county. He had every business owner in LA tucked into his pocket, every other mob boss around America bowing to his every word. Any joint in LA would shut its doors to the public for the night if it meant that Rod Ross was dining with them.

That was why Mello kept Rod as the face of his mafia, the de jure Don of la Casa Nostra.

Tonight, Rod cleared out his favorite bar lounge: a sleek place with black marble tables and long, zebra-print booths facing a panoramic view of Beverly Hills. Candles glowed in the middle of each table, casting flickering golden firelights in the reflection of the windows.

The sky was a deep indigo that night. The city of Los Angeles glittered beneath them, quiet through the thick glass.

Thirty seven storeys above, the lounge was bursting with noise.

The LA mafia consisted of only eleven men in the New Age, but they filled the corners of the lounge, strolling around on red carpeted floors with glasses of champagne in their hands. Rod had ordered a full feast: gold-flecked platters of caviar, silver plates stacked high with oysters, bottles of Dom Perignon filled up to the brim of their flutes, mirror-trays with infinite lines of cocaine.

Rod had even prepared a large sampling table of chocolate truffles, each a different flavor; all of them sat in front of Mello, covered by a heavy silver lid.

It was a celebration. Three days since their successful trade for the world's most powerful weapon, sitting at Mello's feet like a loyal pet. They'd been planning this heist for months, since Mello first joined the ranks; the hijacking, the missile, and the decoys had all gone smoothly, losing no more lives than had been necessary.

All of it had been for a notebook. Leather-bound, papers that smelled like cheap school stationery. Mello wouldn't have believed it if he didn't see it with his own eyes, or watched as his own men tested its powers.

He'd killed almost all of Near's men. Taken down all the remaining rivals leftover still from Pavone's day.

The same notebook that killed his childhood idol.

Mello didn't feel much for the notebook other than spiteful duty. It was a tool, and he never touched it without his gloves on. His prize was Kira.

The Death Note was just the means to get to him.

It was a quarter past nine, and Mello heard hushed whispers beside him as Rod dismissed his whores to another booth. When they made eye contact, Rod flashed him a quick grin.

"Can I start, Boss?" he asked, gesturing towards the lights. Mello jerked his head in approval, and Rod nodded to himself, self-satisfied, snapping his fingers to alert the staff behind him.

The lights dimmed all around them on cue. Mello glanced back to see the rest of the men look up curiously at the ceiling, unsuspecting. Rod rose from his booth like a messiah, the sole candle on the table illuminating him like stage lights, gold necklace glinting, rings shining.

"Gentlemen," Rod announced, his voice commanding as he stepped out of the booth towards the middle of the room. A respectful hush fell over the tables, men and their women twisting their bodies around to look over. The staff stood piously by the doors, locked from the inside out, their hands clasped at their fronts. "Let me make a toast."

Glasses floated towards the ceilings, on command like a salute. Rod's flute, pinched between his large fingers, bubbled in the candlelight. Mello rolled his head to the side, settling in for the show.

"Six years ago, Kira broke the Los Angeles family," Rod started, spreading his arms as he spoke. "Our brothers dropped like flies. Men with no dignity, no self respect, no loyalty. Men who knew nothing about what it meant to be family. Men who'd betray us, who'd stab us in the back for a quick fix, for cash, for clout. These were the cocksuckers who could have never made it out alive. And thank God they never did."

"That's right," Pedoro chimed, tilting his glass for emphasis. Murmurs of agreement filled the silence, and Rod nodded, his expression grave. A natural born actor.

"Five years later, when we were just days away from absorption by Pavone — Mello came to me, with the motherfucker's head in tow. And you know what the crazy bastard told me?" Rod paused for effect, holding up his fingers and looking around at the men. No one spoke. His eyes locked with Mello's, a tinge of pride in his sharklike grin as he delivered the punchline. "'Here's a souvenir from New York, brother.'"

Laughter. The whores joined in, even though all Pavone was to them was a name. A story in the history books.

Rod continued when the laughter died, glancing sidelong at Mello. "We were powerful, but we didn't have vision. Or drive. We wouldn't be here without that head. We're here tonight, good men, here in power, 'cuz we didn't back down. We didn't leave when we were threatened. We set up new bases when they took our old ones. We spawned like _cockroaches_—" Rod slapped the booth behind him for impact, and his gold knuckle rings rang against the dark mahogany, loud in the air, "—so _many_ of us, 'til Kira couldn't get our names from our faces right. And we didn't stop, my brothers. We kept going."

Mello leaned back in the booth, crossing his legs. Most of Rod's men were from New Mexico, without a clue what it meant to be _la famiglia _the way Pavone led his men.

But what they lacked in loyalty, they made up in brute force. Pure, ruthless energy. Traditions had died in the New Age. On the run from Kira, nothing could survive except for power.

That was why he came to Rod when he was eighteen.

"This week, my men, we have made history." Rod raised his glass, holding it up to the chandeliers, a wide grin plastered onto his face. "No other mob — not even in the Golden Days, not even in Dragna's time, God bless his soul — ever got the world to bow down like we do. We cleared out our enemies. Made them kiss our feet, suck our dicks. And now, we have a weapon of mass destruction."

Rod paused, gesturing to the briefcase by the booth seats, and the men around the room looked fixated, their eyes glazed with wonderment. The energy radiating from them was thick.

"But we still got a ways to go. We're not all safe here — we made sacrifices, we lost some of our soldiers. And we'll lose some more. But tonight, my men." Rod waved a hand, and the staff standing by the door stepped forward, dismantling more bottles of champagne from the open bar. "Tonight is our night. And tonight, my men, we don't have to work. Tonight, we drink."

Applause, explosive and heavy, masked the sound of popping champagne bottles, clinking glasses, hoots and hollers. Mello felt himself swallowed by the noise — a sedate rock around which the typhoon orbited — and he swung his arm over the booth, lifting the champagne from the table to appease his Don.

"My men, a toast," Rod called out over the burst of noise, his flute in the air, patting the scantily clad waitresses as they glided past with their hands clasped around the necks of the champagne bottles. "To the family — and to the man who'd given us this night to enjoy, our very own Underboss, Mello himself."

Mello brought the glass to his lips, feeling the alcohol fizz against his skin. Champagne was never his drink of choice, but he knew better than to complain. The rest of the men tossed the drink back like it was a shot, the women gulping it down, their lipstick stains marring the sides of the glass. Drinks were rapidly refilled, trays of cocaine pulled into laps, hundred dollar bills pulled out of expensive wallets and rolled into makeshift straws.

The drinks had been served. The food was getting cold. The night had begun. Rod returned to the booth while the rest of the men busied themselves with their drinks, flashing a proud smile as he slid in. Mello had monopolized the space, chocolate truffles spread around the table like a game of checkers.

When Rod dropped himself down, he began to unbutton his dress shirt with one hand. "Enjoying yourself, Boss?" he asked, pulling his collar.

Mello slid a chocolate truffle into his mouth. "Of course."

"Get a girl for the night, man. It'll do ya good."

Mello tilted his head in thought and then shrugged, taking a sip of his drink.

Rod quirked a brow but his grin stayed firmly on his face. "Suit yourself, Boss. More for me." He cackled at his own joke, holding his hand out to grab at a whore walking by, pulling her down to his lap. She squirmed and giggled, kicking her stocking-clad legs, and Mello looked away, glancing around the room at the rest of his men.

They were spread out over the couches, each lounging in his own table, a whore on each arm. Pedoro. Eddie. Rashual. Glen. Jose. Roy. Skyer. Beck.

Snydar.

He was looking at him when Mello glanced over, their eyes meeting for one brief second before the man hurriedly looked away. He was one of Rod's oldest colleagues, working under him since '87, and now, the notebook's primary writer. A rule claimed that the writer of the notebook died after thirteen days. If Mello were so lucky, Snydar would be dealt with in less than two weeks.

An act of divine intervention. Mello was no believer in God these days, especially after receiving a supernatural notebook in the post, but he still believed in pest extermination.

Mello took a sip of his champagne, putting his hand up in dismissal to the scantily-clad waitress who glided over to immediately give him more. Tonight was a celebration, but for Mello, there was no Sabbath yet. It was only days after they'd made their move on the board — far too early to see how Kira would react. Mello knew they had him solidly in check, but he couldn't call his win until he'd taken the game.

He wanted to see Near dead. He wanted Kira's head.

The end was nowhere in sight.

Besides, he had to find a new base still. He needed the President on their side. He needed to test the full capabilities of the notebook — mind control, causes of death. He needed protection from the SPK. Tomorrow morning, he needed to get back to work; reconnect with old contacts, establish some new ones.

It was a long war he was fighting, and he'd merely won a battle. He needed to watch himself more than ever now. A slip-up meant death.

* * *

Supper ended by midnight. The men came down in groups of four from the elevators, ushered individually into the armored vehicles lining the highrise like a fleet of tanks.

The rest of the men were slinking off to hotels with their favorite whore, or to another bar somewhere farther down the Valley where they'd continue the party in their own ways. The Sabbath went on even after the lounge shut their doors.

Mello still had business to attend to.

He strode towards the sole car from the back door, clutching the handle of the briefcase tightly. There was nobody around, only dumpsters and skunks. He and Rod never left through the front doors of any building; it was too risky.

He opened the door, sliding into the backseat. He held the briefcase at his lap, his hands firmly over the lid, keeping its dangers securely under wraps. The Don came to the car a little over a minute later, whiskey on his breath. He squeezed into the back of the Rolls Royce, narrowing his shoulders as he closed the door.

Neither of them greeted the other. The chauffeur eased out of the back alley, twisting through tight corners and graffiti-lined walls until they were back onto the main street. It was the middle of the night, yet Sunset Boulevard's shining glass and tall skyscrapers still glittered as if it were noon. Mello kept his eyes trained at the window, watching as the buildings shrunk and widened into the jungles of Skid Row.

The engine filled the silence between them. Mello was never one to talk during car rides. Rod was drunk.

Mello sensed a watchful gaze and glanced over to see Rod looking over at him, his rings clinking against the windows of the Rolls Royce. "So Boss," he began when their eyes made contact. "You got somewhere in mind?"

Mello eyed the glass separating the chauffeur and the back seats. Bulletproof and soundproof. Secure.

"We're going to have to move bases again soon, in case we get stormed," Mello responded.

Rod chuckled, turning away to look back at the window, just the curve of his jowls visible from the side. "No rest for the wicked, huh?"

"Only God can afford a Sabbath, Rod."

"We're all gods with the notebook, man," Rod laughed. Mello didn't respond, and at the rift in the conversation, Rod continued as if he hadn't said anything. "Where we looking?"

"An old hideout further out east," Mello replied nonchalantly.

"Barker's old base?"

Sharp as always. Mello jerked his chin in affirmation, crossing his arms against the briefcase. "That's the one."

The tapping on the window didn't stop. "You got it all set up?" Rod asked.

"I'm working on it."

Rod nodded, satisfied, and looked back, his eyes darting towards his briefcase. "And Hoope?"

"We'll do that when the dust settles. Go too fast, and we lose our footing."

"Of course, man," Rod said, nodding slowly. "We move on your word."

It fell silent once more. The view outside faded into the industrial side of town, and Mello slid the briefcase from his lap, setting it on the seat in between them like a truce. "I'm going to need you to lock up tonight," he said, resting his hand over the bulletproof leather like a caress. "I have to be somewhere early tomorrow morning."

They had an underground bunker at their base, rigged with trip-wires, locked by key. Only he and Rod had access. Anybody else stupid enough to break in would be killed.

Even if he was drunk, Rod was never sloppy, especially not when it came to his toys. The Death Note was unattractive to the men, wrapped up with too many contractual obligations with none of the power the original Kira seemed to have, but it was still a weapon that both of them protected with their lives.

Rod took the briefcase easily with one hand, placing it onto the floor beside his feet. "Gotcha. You don't wanna stop by for a drink at the base tonight?"

Mello shook his head. "We're back on track tomorrow morning. We're going to have to test out the full capabilities of the notebook starting tomorrow, too."

Rod grinned. The idea of flexing his God-given supernatural power over his enemies and underlings must have brought him joy. "Thought you'd never ask," he said, squinting an eye into a facsimile of a wink. "You got it, Boss."

* * *

The next morning, Mello found himself in front of a small Italian bistro in Echo Park. It was a weekend brunch spot for families, operating in the broad daylight and closing before the criminals came out to play.

It wasn't Mello's first time there, nor his second. The minute he walked through the doors and triggered the wind-chimes, the heavyset woman mopping the floor pointed towards the back doors. "He is in back," she said, a heavy Italian accent wrapping around her words.

The bistro was empty before their morning rush. Mello nodded his thanks and paced towards the back door down the stairs.

Mac Alistair was an old friend of Mello's from New York; a Vietnam veteran with a knack for homemade explosives back in Pavone's day. He had done time on unrelated drug charges back in 2006 when Mello was still a soldier. Two years later, on bail, he moved to LA with no money in his pocket, set on leaving the mob life behind him.

Mello knew the right people. That was why he was in the very restaurant he had a hand in investing in back when he was nineteen.

Finally, it was his turn to ask for a favor.

Alistair's joint was a far cry from upscale, lacking proper ventilation and air conditioning. It was muggy in the October morning; sunny through the basement windows of his tiny office and humid with one weak ceiling fan.

Mello shrugged off his coat and draped it over the patio chair, giving Alistair a Sicilian greeting before sitting down.

"Good to see you again, son." Alistair lowered himself slowly into his seat. "How've you been?"

"I've been good, Mac," Mello replied smoothly, smiling. "I can tell that you've been as well."

Alistair chuckled, and shook his head. "You want a drink? I'll get Edna to fix us something."

Mello was tight on time. His smile slackened, and he slid his sunglasses off of his face and placed them on the desk-table. "You know I'd love to stay and chat, but I've got to get going soon," he responded, shaking his head.

"Of course, of course. You're a busy man." Alistair said this without heeding his response, picking up the phone by his desk to call one of the waitresses upstairs, telling them in Italian to bring sandwiches down.

Mello quirked a brow, imperceptible through his hair. The Italians were a traditional people, and the New York mafia was testament to this fact. In Pavone's day, they couldn't talk without food in front of them, without getting all the pleasantries out of the way first.

Nowadays, Mello had since become used to the lack of conventions that held Rod's men together. He did what he needed, left when he could. As it should be.

He waited for Alistair to hang up before he caught his eye again, dropping the cordial smile. "I came to talk about a mansion in Soto Street Junction."

Alistair raised his eyebrows, his hand still over the receiver. "A mansion?"

"Three storeys, a cellar and a separate basement."

It was an old Victorian mansion that had become a squatter's den after an old LA Capo had been knocked off years ago. It came prefurnished: ornate furniture, maroon carpets, and lush curtains.

Mello was in the process of redesigning it now, just waiting for a touch of napalm before his men formally moved in.

"Son…" Alistair looked at Mello steadily, trailing off as he waited for Mello to pick up on the meaning of his words. Mello stayed purposefully oblivious, draping his arm over the back of the hard lawn chair, his gaze unfaltering.

The elder man conceded first, shaking his head. He sighed. "You want a setup?"

"Exactly."

He sighed again. "Mello… I haven't done wiring in years."

Mello tilted his head, leaning forward and uncrossing his legs. "You know I wouldn't come to anybody unless I knew they were the best at what they did."

"I know. And that's why it's so hard for me to say no." Alistair cracked a small smile, rueful. "It's the least I can do for you."

A loan that was worth next to nothing in exchange for a man who felt indebted to him for life — that was Mello's idea of a good trade-off. He linked his fingers together at his lap, bowing his head; a humble gesture. "I'm grateful, Mac."

"What are we looking at?"

"A remote demolition. All rooms, front to back, down to the ground. No trace left but rubble."

Alistair inhaled deeply. "That sounds dangerous."

"I know. But I have no choice."

With the Death Note in their possession, they had no choice but to completely eradicate all evidence immediately in the event that they were to be stormed. Mello was out of options if he wanted to keep the notebook away from the enemy.

Alistair looked at Mello with a paternal sense of concern, his mouth in a tight line. Mello suddenly recalled how Pavone used to frown — but it wasn't Pavone's face he had in his mind. It was an Englishman he was thinking of.

A memory he waved away as quickly as it came.

Alistair pulled out one of the drawers in his desk cabinet to retrieve a notepad and a pen. He scribbled a few names onto the paper and ripped it, handing it over. Mello took it and flipped it around: it contained a list of names and phone numbers, all beginning with a Los Angeles area code.

"These are some doctors off the books, in case anything goes awry," Alistair said quietly and then slammed his cabinet back shut. "I won't ask questions. I just hope you'll be prepared in case you do have to detonate them."

Mello nodded gratefully, pocketing the list in his jacket. He'd recognized some names himself. A few men who used to work in hospitals and now operated underground. "I appreciate it, Mac."

"And do you have at least have backup?"

Mello cocked his head. "Backup?"

"As in—" Allistair paused and sighed, as if reconsidering his words. "I'm not doubting your men. But this is a high risk situation you're in now, and you'll need someone to watch over you, too."

Mello leaned back, crossing his arms. "My men are fine."

Alistair shook his head. "In the New Age, the mafia isn't what it used to be, like how you and I remember it back in New York. Men don't have the same morals as they used to. Now, son, I don't know what you're rigging this base for, but I'm sure it's something big, and you'll need someone to watch your back, who isn't gonna get you in trouble when you do blow it up. You get it?"

He got it, but he didn't like it. "My men are fine," he repeated, steely.

Alistair paused for a beat, and then looked away. "All right. Sorry, son. You know I don't mean to say your men aren't trustworthy."

It was true that Rod's men were nothing like Pavone's fiends. He could count it as a blessing that the Death Note now had so many fickle rules, but even in New York, they'd had plenty of pigeons that ended up becoming the end of the East Coast family.

Mello would know: he was one himself.

But backup was unnecessary. Besides, he had nobody else to watch over him, nobody he could trust.

"I'll have a full surveillance system, so we needn't worry too much about my men," Mello said, impassive. "But from you, Mac. I just need the rigs."

Alistair sensed that he had overstepped his boundaries, and nodded to himself. "Right. Sorry."

There was a rap on the door. Mello glanced back to see the heavyset woman from earlier, balancing a tray of San Pellegrino and two sandwiches on her arm to put on the desk in front of them. Mello thanked her in Italian, and she eased herself out without another word.

"I'll give you some time to prepare," Mello said when she was outside. "How long will it take?"

Alistair frowned. "Something like this, I'd give it at least a few days. Come back tomorrow and I'll let you know something more definite."

Mello nodded, standing up from the chair and lifting his sunglasses from the table. The leather of his vest peeled away audibly from the cheap plastic. "It was a pleasure, Mac."

"Won't you stay a bit longer? At least stay and eat your focaccia."

The Italians and their food… Mello paused and sat back down, brushing his damp hair from the nape of his neck. "All right," he conceded, taking a sandwich, keeping his gloves on.

The least he could do after so many demands was stay and eat some goddamned focaccia.


	2. Chapter 2

They didn't let people in the base between the hours of 3 to 4 PM. It was Rod's Judgment Hour, and Mello held the murder list in his hand, squinting at the Don's wide, round handwriting.

_Raskal Masters. Self-immolation. _

_Sunny James. Suicide. _

_Leo Luciano. Traffic accident. _

_Ralph Palmer. Cancer._

Mello frowned and looked up. Rod was spread out over the length of the zebra couch, lounging back with his palms upturned into a shrug, watching his reaction.

"Hey, who knows?" he laughed. "Cancer's still a way to die."

Mello looked away and snapped a piece of his chocolate, pulling his leg up before continuing.

_Alex Morega. Asphyxiation._

_Ugo Grippi. Hemorrhage…_

The list read like a menu selection of daily specials. When Mello finished, he tossed it back on the coffee table, watching it flutter gently onto the glass beside Rod's whiskey. Rod made expectant eye contact, and Mello crossed his arms and nodded his approval.

"What d'ya think is our success rate for this?" Rod asked, his elbows on his knees, his gold rings shining as he wrung his hands.

Mello paused in thought. "Eight out of nine," he said. "Palmer will probably die of a heart attack."

Rod tsked, shaking his head in disappointment. "It's a goddamned notebook that kills, Boss. What can't it do?"

Kill without a face, apparently. Snydar had had ownership of the notebook for nearly a week now, and he still hadn't developed a single skill that made him worth keeping. Mello didn't say this aloud, and Rod had given up on an answer, leaning forward to flip over the ripped piece of loose leaf paper, its blue lines a rougher version of the neat grey ones that divvied up the Death Note's pages.

As always, the men that Rod wanted to kill were the bigwigs in other mobs, old associates, disloyal friends, longtime enemies. Mello had heard of them once or twice, but none of them were men he was familiar with. Rod always knew someone who knew someone, and for every day that someone died, Rod liked to give their families a call, offer his condolences, and send the biggest bouquet for the funeral.

Mello had no interest in the daily workings of the notebook. Only the results.

He glanced at the wall clock, noting the time. He had to get to Echo Park in less than an hour. Alistair had promised to rig the base tomorrow evening, and they were finalizing the blueprints, deciding on the best explosive device to blow down the foundation walls of Travis' old mansion.

Mello stood up, readjusting his clothes, and Rod's head snapped up. "You goin' somewhere, Boss?" he asked.

"Yeah," Mello responded, crumpling his chocolate wrapper and dropping it onto the low table. "Let me know how it goes. I'll be back in the evening."

He had expected the conversation to end there. His gun was at his waistband, and he had a chocolate bar still in his fur coat hanging in the cloakroom. He headed towards the stretcher stairs leading to the entrance hallway, frowning when he heard Rod's footsteps join him, taking long, meandering strides from behind.

Mello slowed down when he got to the staircase, turning around. Rod was closer than he was expecting. "Yes?"

"You need anything else for the new base?"

Mello shook his head. "Just our guns."

Rod nodded, his arm shooting out to hold onto the railing of the stairs. He rapped at it idly, slapping it with his palms. "Yeah, they're good to go," Rod said, grinning. "I got Dominic's guys in for the transport."

For Rod to bring in an outsider was unlike him. Mello quirked a brow, stepping back and staring at him steadily. "From New Mexico?"

"Yeah. Tough guy. Real good for guns." Rod shoved the topic away like he was on the wrong channel on television, resuming his beat on the railing. "You goin' to anyone for help?"

Mello knew better than to insult his intelligence by lying to him. "Mac Alistair," he said casually.

"Mac Alistair? Pavone's old 'Nam vet friend?"

"Yeah."

The grin that spread onto Rod's face was tinged with incredulity, like he was hearing a bad joke. "You rigging the base?"

"I am. We need something more expansive now that we have the notebook."

Rod's grin didn't fade. "If the notebook gets destroyed, everyone's gonna die. Right, Boss?"

Mello crossed his arms. "I have an escape plan worked out if it ever comes down to it, as well as a list of medical contacts." Mello paused, and Rod was about to speak again, but he interrupted him, "You know I won't put us in any danger, Rod."

"—Yeah, 'course I know that, Boss." Even so, Rod's grin still looked incredulous. "Where'd you get that list from, anyway?"

"Alistair."

The conversation stalled as Rod broke eye contact again, hands still over the rail. Mello started up the steps, signalling the end of their exchange.

He knew Rod was uneasy around people he didn't know well, especially men from rival groups, or Pavone's men. But Mello had given him his word, and his word was final. Their partnership was strong enough to survive the blow.

Mello was halfway up the staircase when Rod spoke again, disturbing the sound of Mello's heels against the aluminum. His voice sounded grave, even timid, but Mello stayed firm in his resolve, squaring his shoulders and staring at the door before him.

"We really sure about him, Mello?" Rod asked. "He's been retired for a while now. Doesn't want nothin' to do with the business anymore. You really sure you want him involved?"

"Of course. He's good at what he does." Mello shifted his weight, one foot on the next step, ready to leave. "He's my associate. That means he isn't an outsider."

Rod didn't respond, but Mello forwent waiting for a reply. He was going to be late. He kept moving, and he heard Rod's footsteps retreating before he entered the long stretch of hallway before the entrance doors.

He wasn't worried; Rod had said it himself. Without Mello, the California mafia would be nothing. His word was law.

* * *

The next day, none of Mello's calls went through. He wouldn't have been surprised had an unexperienced associate begun to screen his calls at the eleventh hour, but this was not something that someone like Mac Alistair would do.

Mello did not like to assume, but he knew better than to doubt his hunches.

He'd sped the rest of the way on the interstate. As he reached the bistro, he found the front door locked and the open sign turned over. The glass reflected sunlight and pedestrians, the space inside dark and uninhabited.

Mello shielded his eyes to peer inside the glass window. It was empty. There were glasses set out, half-drunk, plates uncollected and hastily stacked on the tables. Not a soul, just their leftovers.

Which meant it was something sudden.

From his peripheral vision, there was movement by the open kitchen, signalling that he had company. He reached automatically for his gun at his back, but dropped his hand when it was only Edna.

She charged towards the front door, her mouth moving. She was saying something he couldn't hear, but when the door opened, rapidfire Italian leaked through the cracks, not a breath between words. Mello narrowed his eyes as he mentally translated, "—a heart attack, he was in his office and suddenly when I went down he was already cold… it was so sudden, we had to close..."

He had expected nothing less. Edna trailed off, and when Mello nodded at her to continue, Edna only responded by gesturing for him to join her inside.

It was quiet in its darkness, the aftermath of a disaster, when Mello slipped through the door. The scent of bread still hung in the air from earlier in the afternoon. Edna began to talk again when she shut the door.

"When we found the body, we needed everyone to clear out," Edna continued, piling the dishes on the table, bringing them to the dark kitchen window. Almost reflexive. Mello stood by the front entrance, watching her steadily. "I had to stay. Mac trusts me with this. I'm the only one with the key. His wife and daughter are in the hospital with him, God bless."

She cleared out the tables, wiped them down with a filthy-looking cloth. "Sit, sit. Do you need a drink?"

Mello crossed his arms, ignoring the question. "When did this happen?"

"Just earlier. Two or three." Edna tossed the cloth onto an adjacent table, and waved at the seats. "Sit down. I'll get you some water."

Mello shook his head. He hadn't moved from the front door, poised to reconfirm his worst suspicions. "Did he have a heart condition?"

Edna frowned, cocking her head. "No, dear. Not that I knew about." A pause racked her brain, and her charcoal-lined eyes widened in surprise, slow in its realization. When she spoke, her voice was a thin reedlike string. "Was it Kira?"

There was no reason for her to know about the collateral damage of the mafia. Mello wasn't even sure if she'd known about his mob ties — she was a distant family friend. She'd probably lived in LA for too long to know that he was bad company.

"No, of course not," Mello responded smoothly. "He had high cholesterol."

"Oh, of course," Edna sighed, a hefty dropping of her shoulders, wiping her hands on her apron almost like a nervous tic. "God bless his soul. He's always eating our cakes for his tea break. I told him he shouldn't. Never listened to me. And now…"

She held her hands towards her face as her eyes brimmed with a thin coat of tears, and Mello looked away towards the window. The sun was almost setting. The death happened three or four hours ago, which placed Mello at the base, right before the daily judgment calls.

Kira didn't kill outside of the hour, and he hadn't touched any mob men in nearly a year. Alistair had done his time, and Kira never killed reformed criminals.

This was not a criminal purge. It was a message — an extremely arrogant one.

Edna was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief from her apron when Mello looked back, sniffling softly. "I hope he'll be fine," she said, her voice thick with tears. "His daughter is still in school…"

Mello was sure that he would be. The bistro was a good investment, and he'd given him a hefty down payment just two days ago. "Mac had a plan for her, I'm sure," he responded, readjusting his sunglasses. "I'm heading outside to make a call."

Edna's voice broke, ignoring him. "What will I do? If they sell the business…"

Mello turned around abruptly enough that it shocked her into silence. He had no time to stay around and listen to her, and he left her crying by the dining tables with a dirty cloth in her hand. The sun was low enough in the sky outside that the heat was no longer oppressive, but he stood under the awning anyway when he pulled his phone out to dial the only number in his cell phone, pressing his back against the glass.

His call was picked up quickly. "Rod speaking."

"Rod."

"Hey, Boss. What's up?"

Mello could see his sharklike smile in his mind's eye. His irritation spiked, but he kept his voice purposefully neutral. "Why did you kill Alistair?"

Rod laughed, the loud boisterous sound fuzzy over the reception. He'd always laughed nastily, like everything was a dirty joke. "Oh yeah, how'd that fucker die?"

Mello had to tighten his fists at Rod's unceremonious reaction. "A heart attack," he replied.

"God damned shame… he was s'posed to commit a mass shooting and then blow his own brains out." Rod let out a bark of a laugh again as if that was the punchline, and it made Mello clench his jaw. Crass, showy sadism was never something Mello found particularly funny. "Guess the notebook loses this time, huh?"

"We didn't discuss this."

"Yeah, but what better way to confirm the note's powers than to have you see it in person?" Rod let out a full cackle, gleeful. "Too bad it didn't work."

It was nothing more than a goddamned joke to Rod, but Mello swallowed his irritation before it brimmed over, before it spilled from his mouth. They'd had a fair partnership built on mutual tolerance, and anger was never the language they spoke with one another.

"Why'd you do it, Rod?" he asked, his voice thin.

"'Cuz, Mello, he's an outsider. We don't want no fuckin' outsiders finding out about our business." Rod sobered up, "If he or any of the New York guys found out about the notebook, we're fucked."

"He wasn't going to find out. They were only explosives."

"Yeah, well, he's outlived his use now," Rod replied, harsh. "You need a guy for a bomb setup, I know one from New Mexico."

A taunt. Rod was showing off. Disgust trickled in from Mello's eardrums to the back of his throat, and he paused for a beat longer than he'd wanted to. "No. I can do it myself."

"You sure 'bout that, Boss?"

"Of course I am. When have I ever put us in danger?"

"Yeah, man. That's the way I wanna keep it."

"And that's the way it'll be, Rod."

He flipped the phone shut before he could hear a response. Rod didn't care for his plans — he'd knocked them over, forcing Mello to start from scratch. No reason other than bored bemusement and misplaced trust.

When Mello had first joined the family, he asked for nothing more than cooperation in his search for Kira. There was no demand for money, nor status, nor a position in the LA mafia beyond what he deserved as the Underboss.

Rod had promised him then that he would stop at nothing to make sure that he had Kira's head. And Mello had placed trust in him, too, throughout the following year. He allowed him to roam free, to do whatever he needed with the Death Note.

It was a mistake, and one that had cost an unnecessary life.

He glanced back at the restaurant as he paced towards his bike, seeing Edna sitting in the booth chairs, her head down. He would come back for her later — arrange the funeral, pay for the costs. He had a mess here that he had to clean up.

It was as Alistair had warned him. The men in the mafia had no morals, no dignity, no true tie to family the way Pavone's men had in New York. Rod cared for nothing, other than his own New Mexico pack. It was no _famiglia _. He had a pack of wild wolves, biting anything that looked remotely domesticated, any sign of Pavone's illustrious past.

* * *

Mello had a backup plan. It was not one that he wanted to use, nor one that he ever considered a viable possibility. His trump card was always in the distant horizon, a ship he kept an eye on to see that it was still afloat, but he'd never extended a hand out to it, never wanted to make the call.

It was another tally for the humiliation, for the defeat. Reclining in his settee in his apartment, Mello looked over the Los Angeles skyline, the ten digits underneath his finger on a burner cellphone heavy in his palm. It was sometime in the evening now, dark enough that the sun had just finished setting. Lights glittered in the horizon over the San Fernando valley, and Mello stared into the black hills as his finger hovered the call button.

He pressed down, and lifted it to his ear.

Early last year, the mafia had enlisted help from a hacking collective from Arizona named Blackbird. They had helped to wipe out all the FBI's existing files on Rod's men — all the cases they had been building on them over the past ten years. It kept Snydar and Rod from decades-long sentences, expunged half the men still remaining in the base of their former criminal records.

It hadn't been cheap. Seven hackers worked in Blackbird, and all of them had received a hefty sum of 100K, both before and after the hack. Since then, Blackbird had gone offline, and from what he'd seen through Snydar's low-calibre cybertech skills, FBI had managed to create new files on the men through the SPK's database.

His ace in the hole was one of the cyber criminals on the team, with a pseudonym that referenced an old Japanese animation. But Mello wasn't one to dwell, and so he didn't.

The line kept ringing, long enough that it was suspicious that it hadn't gone to voicemail just yet. The number was most likely no longer in use. He'd have to dig around more for it, which was fine. He had time before his planned move, and Mello had become very adept in recognizing the hacker's footprints online.

Mello pulled the phone away to snap it shut when he heard a noise on the other side.

"Hello?"

Even inches away from his ear, Mello felt a battery acid burn overtake his chest when he heard the voice, muffled with the crackle of a long distance call. It was a reaction he hadn't been expecting, and he swallowed before he began.

"I know this may seem a bit sudden," he said, softly.

There was a pause, a silence long enough to fill his living room with a bloated sense of anticipation. The voice on the other line asked tentatively, "Who is this?"

"Don't you recognize me?"

Another pause. "… No?"

"Starts with an M. Three guesses."

A stunned breath. "Fuck. Really?" Another stunned pause. "It's you?"

"I'd like to speak to you in person," Mello said, changing the subject quickly, making sure that he snapped his chocolate bar hard enough that the receiver could pick it up on the other end.

He didn't want a reunion. He just wanted the job done.

"Why?"

"I don't have time to explain. How about we meet somewhere?"

He waited for a reply.

It had been a few years, and things had changed. Mello was not calling to make his acquaintance, nor did he care for niceties beyond the price of the explosives. He knew that it was low risk and low commitment. Enough for the job to be quick, almost impossible to say no to.

There was a long silence on the other end, and then suddenly, the phone beeped against his ear. Mello whipped his screen around, peering at it and furrowing his brows at the black background that greeted him back.

Shit… Matt hung up on him.


	3. Chapter 3

What the fuck?

Matt sat there in nothing but woollen ankle socks and a pair of boxers, staring at his rudely timed dead battery, the screen black. He narrowed his eyes, frowned, blinked and then stared harder, as if something that made sense would materialize out of the twilight zone, because what the _fuck_ was that?

Was that Mello?

He threw his phone down and crawled over to get a charger out of his rat's nest of cables and cords, in a cardboard shipment box by the foot of his bed. None of these even looked right, but it had to be in there somewhere. Mello had called on his Blackbird phone. It hadn't been charged for over a month, and it'd been out of use for even longer than that, but it was one of Nokia's thin black cords, with a pin-like little charger, and if he'd just dug around a little more—

Ah, there it was.

He unravelled the wire and furrowed his brows again, plugging the charger into his phone and watching the battery low logo flash on the screen.

Yeah, it'd been a hell of a long time since Mello'd last seen him. Matt had been in two countries and three states since then — rock-hopping from England to Nevada to Arizona and now, to his sunny home in Koreatown, Los Angeles, California.

It'd been five whole years, to be exact. Mello had gone and traded his former posh and lofty English accent in for this neutral American one, loosening his o's and flattening out his a's. Everything was different.

There seriously was no good reason for Mello to seek him out.

Matt flipped the phone shut, tossing it onto the comforter, and picked up the cereal bowl chilling by his pj pants, Froot Loops soaking in milk that was definitely going bad soon. In his dark room, where the only light was from his computer screen idling on a Windows 98 Maze screensaver, he considered the options.

Number one, Mello was calling to reminisce about old times.

Unlikely. That bastard was cold as ice.

Number two, Mello was about to die and wanted to say his farewells.

Unlikely. He sounded fine on the other end, eating chocolate and talking like a real American gangster.

Number three, Mello needed Matt's help.

Most likely, because why the fuck else would Mello call him? The Kira case was ramping up — Matt knew Near had his little search gang in New York City, and he wasn't kept up on the news, but he knew enough about the world to know that the terrorist attacks were getting more and more extreme. Blackbird went offline earlier this year, and no other cyberhacker group could even compare to them in the New Age.

Mello must have had a business proposal for him. Something to do with computers, most likely, since Mello was fucking hopeless when it came to anything electronic, couldn't even tell a LAN wire from a USB cord.

Unless—

The time on Matt's phone blinked alive. He crawled back over, shovelling the last of his cereal into his mouth, and then flipped open the screen. Fuck, the background was a photo of him and Amy still — he punched the call log as quickly as his phone could handle it, and then, clear as day, there it was:

6:19pm, Call from Unknown.

Yeah, alright, so it was real. Now what? Matt was about to unplug the charger, just cancel the whole number while he was at it since the phone wasn't in use anymore. Blackbird was gone, and hell, he hadn't even been in Phoenix since April of 2008, and he never wanted to go back. Mello could deal with his own messes — it'd been that way since they were kids, anyway.

But something stopped him from wrapping his hand around the cord and yanking it out of the socket.

They were adults now. Let bygones be bygones or whatever the fuck.

Matt sat back onto the bed and sighed, leaning his head on his fist. If Mello called back, and only if Mello called back, then Matt was going to answer with a full battery next time, armored and prepared. He wasn't about to reestablish contact himself, but if Mello really needed him — well, he'd have to make it clear.

Determined now, Matt exited the call screen, and then groaned when the main screen flashed up again.

Fuck, he really should change his phone background.

* * *

"David Hoope, is anybody listening in on this conversation now? Because you won't want the world to hear what I'm about to say."

The President was on the other line. Mello and Rod had planned it for days since retrieving the notebook — and it was finally time for them to extend their powers fully.

The voice on the other end was quiet. "Yes, the line is safe."

Mello smirked, handing the phone to Eddie behind him, who took his place and held it at his ear. "You know about the notebook of death, don't you? And the SPK?"

Hoope didn't respond right away, but the mafia could afford to be patient. They were no closer to knowing how to kill with a face, and the Japanese National Police Agency was useless. All they could tell him was that some cretin had taken L's name and bastardized it, heading an investigation that went nowhere.

At the least, Hoope was outspoken about his anti-Kira views, even though the rest of his beliefs were conservative. He was one of the last remaining right-wing politicians who still stood against Kira. If the mafia had him on their side, they would have all of the United States of America under their thumb instantly.

"We're the group who took the Death Note from Yagami of the NPA," Mello continued. "You can use the notebook to control people as well as kill them. Did you know that?"

There was no response on the other end, and Mello pinched the notebook with two fingers and lifted it up to the light, inspecting it at a distance. "That means that if there's anyone you want to see dead and how, we could do you a favor."

Rod laughed by his side, and Mello turned away.

"Let me put it this way. With this, we can take control over anybody who has their finger on the nuclear button."

Hoope was stunned enough to break his silence. "You can't do that. If you do, you'd be starting World War Three—"

"Of course we would be." Mello kicked his feet onto the low table, cocking his head. "How about that?"

"What do you want me to do?"

Mello let himself laugh showily, dragging his tongue over his chocolate. "Very presidential of you to cut right to the chase. We don't want to be your enemy, Hoope. I know we can have a wonderful, mutually beneficial relationship."

"Mutually beneficial?" Hoope repeated.

"That's right. Since you want the notebook for yourself, don't you? Before the rest of the world knows about it."

"What are you talking about?"

"That's why you went ahead and assembled the SPK. But the notebook you're after is ours, and the other one belongs to Kira. Tell me, Mr. President. What does Kira know about justice?"

No response. That was fine— it was time to cut to the chase. Now that he had the President's attention, all Mello had to do was state his terms, and then it would be theirs.

"I'll tell you what. We kill Kira, and you get the notebook."

"And in exchange?"

Mello didn't miss the way Pedoro pumped his fist in the corner of his eye. "No more than your cooperation in getting Kira's notebook, and immunity. The American people are fine without Kira. Really, they'd be better off."

"What cooperation?" Hoope asked.

Mello snapped off a piece of his chocolate to hold in between his fingers, a small piece of victory. "First, we want you to give us information about the SPK, and to keep us up to date with them. Second, we want funding, weapons, and access to satellite surveillance."

"I don't know anything about the SPK."

"Yeah, we know," Mello cut in. "We're talking about providing us with as much as you can get your hands on without arousing suspicion. You're not all useless. You ought to be competent enough to know what we're asking for."

"Even if I could give you financial support," Hoope protested, "When it comes down to weapons and satellite surveillance, I can't—"

Mello cut him off again. "No. But say you pretended to put together a team to hunt us down since we killed the director of the NPA. How about that?"

Hoope stayed quiet, and Mello knew that it meant their victory.

"Except, of course," he continued, "if you refuse. Then you'd just be nothing but a coward in your citizens' eyes. But you wouldn't want that now, would you?"

The President hung up quickly like he was insulted, but his answer rung loud and clear. Mello jerked his chin when the dial tone resounded and Eddie snapped the phone shut, handing it back to Snydar, who left to go back to Rod's office to replace the phone.

"We got him," Mello announced.

The base shimmered with a nervous excitement, as if too afraid to celebrate. Rod caught Mello's eye as he bit off another piece of his chocolate, his grin still plastered onto his face. "This is good, Boss."

"Yeah, it is."

"We can't really cause WWIII with the notebook, can we?"

"No. We can't use the notebook to kill more than one person." Mello looked at him steadily, the meaning of his words hanging heavily over the both of them. "Remember?"

Rod laughed and tossed his head back, draping his arm around the back of the couch. "Oh yeah."

Mello didn't shift his gaze for a few long seconds. He knew better than to bring it up in front of all their men, but he'd decided to put the matter to rest for now. Besides, he knew that by having the President in their pocket, Rod would be pacified enough for Mello to pull the next stunt.

This was good, all right. He could see the end of the finish line now that he was barrelling towards it. He'd have Near's head, too, in due time.

When victory was this close, it tasted sweet, like luxury Italian chocolates laced with fine gold flecks and caramel. He would have his Sabbath after it was all over. Mello'd always wanted to go to Italy — that sounded like an excellent place for his Holy Rest.

* * *

Matt was early.

Ten minutes was too eager; he sat in the car as it idled, his car lights still on and shining beams on the brick wall of the building in front of him. The sign above him glowed brightly, piss-yellow against the dark brown sky, and shone off of the hood of his Camaro. There were a few other cars in the parking lot with him, and he wasn't sure if Mello had gotten there yet, but he also didn't want to know at all.

He was close to just turning around and going back home — they hadn't seen one another for five years, so another five wouldn't hurt, would it?

Matt shook his head to himself.

They'd had another chat yesterday night. Mello really had called back when Matt had 100% battery on his Nokia again, and they finished the rest of their clipped conversation with little incident.

They decided to meet at a bar — Matt's choice. So he picked a dive in Atwater Village. One of those places where hardly anybody was there and the bartenders didn't give a shit about you.

More importantly, though, it was one of those hush-hush smoking bars from the shittier parts of LA. Matt was not going to turn up to a meeting with an ex-friend and _not _fill himself up with nicotine.

He turned down his car lights, sliding lower on his seat to get a crumpled box of cigarettes from his pocket. He rolled down his window just a crack and lit up, turning on the radio just as the last song ended and the next song began with a nostalgic ska intro.

_I don't practice Santeria, I ain't got no crystal ball _…

Ah, irony. Matt liked Sublime back at Wammy's, borrowed a lot of music back then from the Media Library. To hear them _right now _felt like some sort of divine mockery. Ha-ha, very funny, God.

A second later he noticed that his palms were sweaty. He rubbed them against his jeans and sighed, busying himself by watching the street beside him as cars sped past, draping his arms over the wheel. Black sleeves, real respectable. It was the cleanest shirt he had.

Honestly, there wasn't a real reason to be as nervous as he was, since he was on some fun mood-numbers already. He'd also downed some two shots of tequila before getting into his car, and now he was starting to feel the effects of it in his empty stomach.

He was sure he was just psyching himself up. After all, how bad could it be, really?

Finishing his cigarette, Matt tossed the offending stick out of the crack of his open window and rolled it up.

And then he lit another one for good measure.

Just as the tip caught, he glanced up and saw someone walk onto the premises from the east side. He was blonde, with a fur coat of some sort and heeled shoes, talking on the phone as he pushed open the door. Matt turned off his car, and then sighed and watched as the blond disappeared inside the building.

There he was.

Seemed like Mello kept that stupid haircut.

Matt didn't want to be early but he definitely did not want to be late. He leaned down to his boot, securing the small pistol strapped to his ankle just as a safety measure. Yeah, what a reunion, bringing a fucking gun to see your childhood friend, laugh it up. Being in the Skid all the time had some merit, made him more wary of his surroundings at least.

He sucked his cigarette in haste, burning a good quarter of it into his lungs, and then got out of his Camaro and threw it on the gravel. He zipped up his windbreaker, cool now in the autumn breeze, then stomped on the half-finished cigarette and kicked it into the shrubbery.

Gun, check. Clean clothes, check. Face… Matt ducked to peer into the rearview mirror in the yellow reflection of the neon lights, seeing a scrawny tired looking motherfucker with overgrown hair look back at him.

Jesus… check. He looked away, locked his car door, jammed his hands into his pockets, and headed towards the bar.


	4. Chapter 4

Matt pushed the doors open, trying to find that golden blonde head again in the dimly lit pub.

Five booths down, right at the end of the bar there in the back wall, lit by the orange glow of the lamp in the middle — bingo.

He felt like he was wading through murky sea water as he ambled through the smoky air of the dive, his legs heavy, his lungs on manual. There wasn't anybody there except for three patrons sitting on barstools and a redheaded bartender, not looking up at him as he sailed past.

When he got close enough, he rounded the corner where a fur coat was hanging on a hook, and then he saw him in high resolution for the first time in years. That was Mello, all right: the same goddamned features, the same goddamned bangs falling over his eyes as he looked at his cell phone like he had some more important business to attend to.

Except the rest of the image was wrong. Where he was expecting Mello's cotton black long-sleeves, he instead got some sort of quilted leather getup, its sheen catching the glow of the lamp. His body looked like it was Photoshopped onto his head — his arms were wiry and muscular, his hands were gloved and sleek.

He looked a biker. He looked rich.

He looked powerful enough that Matt felt intimidated to stand there in his goggles and his fucking windbreaker, as if they had any reason at all to even be in the same place at the same time.

That was all Matt took in on his second impression before Mello looked up, a sort of recognition settling in his eyes. Before Matt could even make a stupid comment, though, Mello broke the silence swiftly. "Long time no see," he said, new American accent and all.

Matt moved his mouth to talk. "Oh, yeah. Sorry I'm late. Couldn't find the booth."

"No worries," Mello replied, folding an arm over the table top. He watched as Matt shrugged off his windbreaker and tossed it into the booth, and Matt felt self conscious enough about it to stay standing, mulling around by the table.

"Almost didn't recognize ya," Matt joked.

"Thanks."

Wasn't a compliment, but alright. The two of them stayed silent for a few agonizing seconds before Matt broke the awkwardness, whipping around to look at the bar behind him. "Uh, hey, you want something to drink? I'm gonna go grab a beer."

His comment seemed to kickstart the scene back to life.

"Oh, don't worry about that." Mello glided out of the booth and stood up before him, reaching for his wallet in his back pocket. "What do you want? It's on me."

"Oh, hey, no, you don't gotta —"

"You think I'm gonna invite you out to drinks and make you pay?"

Matt blinked. "Fine."

Mello smiled in a big-bucks type of way — the type of smile that said he was good and he knew it. Without replying, he sauntered away towards the bar and left Matt to fend for himself.

From behind, Matt could see that the quilted vest Mello was wearing ended at his midriff, exposing his back right where girls got their tramp-stamps and then some, showing off way more skin than he'd ever even seen a grown man bare. A glitzy silver chain with skulls held the wallet he had in his hand to his belt, and his pants were full leather.

In fact, _everything _was leather.

Jesus. Dressed like that, he was asking for trouble.

Matt shook his head and slid into the booth finally. He grabbed his crumpled pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and tossed it onto the table, along with his Zippo.

Shortly after, Mello came back with his hands around two bottles of Budweiser, a glass of water, and an ashtray clenched between two of his fingers. Mello slid back in and across from him, slipping the ashtray behind the table tent as if he was saying "just in case" about it.

Matt took his bottle by the neck and smiled to the best of his ability. "Thanks for the drink, man. To… uh..."

"To old friends," Mello toasted, clinking the bottles together. Mello set his back onto the table without taking a sip. Matt raised his brows but didn't say anything else, deciding to evade the awkward silence by getting a cigarette from his pack.

Lipping the stick, he glanced up at Mello and realized that he was being watched. Mello's stare was always really intense, but the years sharpened it into some kind of laser beam, and now he felt like he was doing something he shouldn't.

"... You mind?" he asked, belatedly, self-conscious again.

"No, go ahead," Mello said.

Two parts morbid curiosity and one part common courtesy, Matt tilted the box towards him. He remembered Mello taking drags from his cigs back when they were kids —

"I don't smoke," Mello replied.

— Or not. Matt shrugged, put down the box and lit up, keeping the lighter tight in his fist as he released a plume of smoke away from the table.

"How've you been, Matt?" Mello cut in as Matt pulled an ashtray from behind the table tent.

"Me?" Matt snorted. "Let me ask you that. What do you think I've been up to?"

"I don't know."

"C'mon, I know you're not the type to go into a meeting blind."

Mello's expression was unreadable at first, but his lips broke into a dry smile, and then he shook his head. "Touché. I knew you were in Blackbird, but I didn't know what you were up to now. I thought you were still in Phoenix."

"Huh. You were gonna go all the way over there for me?"

"It's just a one hour flight," he shrugged, leaning his arm against the back of the booth, lounging over the seat like it was his throne. "Since Blackbird was dissolved, though, I assumed you were picking up jobs here and there. But you weren't making a lot of noise, so… I was surprised the call went through."

"How'd you even find out I was Spike in Blackbird, anyway?"

Mello gave him a knowing look. "The ASCII art?"

Oh yeah. Matt had done a lot of advertising for his hacking services through ASCII art and troll posts before Blackbird properly recruited him, operating under the moniker Spike_182. The ads were a carry-over from one of his favorite pastimes at Wammy's, where he'd gotten really good at recreating pictures through 7-bit ASCII.

"You still remember that?" Matt asked.

Mello shrugged, finally taking his first sip of his beer. "So what brings you to LA?"

Did he want the real answer, or the rehearsed one? "Warm weather, nice beaches, good beer, and beautiful girls everywhere," he said, grinning at the last. "Beats the desert any day."

"You got a girl?" Mello's lips quirked, looking like he was waiting for the punchline of a joke.

"Me? Nah, man. I don't wanna get tied down like that." He shot the question back out of politeness, "And you?"

"Nah," Mello replied, almost as if he was mimicking him, the colloquialism feeling too heavy to be from his mouth. "Don't have the time."

"Yeah... bet you don't." The conversation stalled, and Matt leaped to fill in the rest. "But I mean, Phoenix was fine, but I liked the canyon more to begin with. Used to go down there on Sundays, watch the sun rise. But I wanted something different, and LA was close enough that it was possible."

"You like LA, huh?"

"Oh yeah, it's good. The Asian food's real good."

"Well, then, welcome." Mello gestured with his hand briefly, and Matt nodded, looking away. He spun the lighter with his right hand, took a large gulp of beer with his left.

"So what've you been up to?" Matt asked politely.

"I've been busy."

"Yeah, figured that."

"My company has been everywhere. Casinos, hotels, clubs, dive bars… but recently we're much smaller. We're only down to eleven men, including me."

"Damn. Nothing internal, I'm hoping." There was no response to that. Matt glanced up to look at Mello, who stared at him resolutely. "… Goddamn. Alright, I see."

"That's what the business is all about, Matt," Mello concluded neatly, leaning closer to the middle of the table and crossing his legs. "So, Matt, are you kept up on Kira?"

And there it was. Matt paused his Zippo twirling and looked up, staring at Mello, almost challenging him to say more. "Nope," he said, smiling tightly.

"Really?"

"Really."

"Over 10% of the world's population is falling to a supernatural force with the ability to judge us for our crimes. Every night, there are specials on TV stations all around the world on Kira's judgments. I know there are plenty of video games that cover the topic, as well."

Matt leaned back, still staring at him, his Zippo on the table now. "No, I'm not too interested in psychopaths."

"A conscious hatred then," Mello noted.

"No, not everyone is obsessed with it is all I'm saying."

"Come on, Matt. You're smarter than avoidance."

"Nah. I'm pretty fucking dumb."

"We're on the same page, Matt. You know how I feel about him." When Matt shook his head, unwilling to make eye contact, Mello continued. "Let me fill you in. Do you know the SPK?"

"Heard of 'em."

"Special Provisions for Kira, located in New York City. It's a team of CIA and FBI agents for the anti-Kira effort. Ring any bells?"

Matt shrugged, snuffing out his cigarette in the ashtray.

"President Hoope funded them, and they've been the leading investigators on the Kira case since earlier last year."

"So I guess you invited me out as a test audience for your keynote on Kira's New Age, huh?" Matt cut in, his patience wearing thin. "Gotta say, a little dry. It'd be better with a Powerpoint. Need some visuals, personally."

Mello stared at him, breaking character. "I'll cut to the chase then. I'm after Kira."

Matt was on his next cigarette, lighting it up on autopilot. "Shocking," he said flatly, tossing his Zippo back onto the table when he was done.

Mello ignored him. "The SPK is Near's. The National Police Academy in Japan was L's, before he was killed, and from what we know, a new Japanese policeman has taken and disgraced his title. And my team is—"

"Your ten men."

"That's right. My team, most of whom are criminals who get a bit antsy when teased with power."

Matt was starting to get the picture here, but he didn't want to give Mello the satisfaction of sparing him. "Okay, Mello. Dumb it down for me. Why'd _you _invite me out tonight?"

That seemed to shut Mello up, made him rewire his circuits. He narrowed his eyes, breaking his suave and charismatic businessman persona, and Matt felt a tiny victory at the crack in his veneer.

Mello responded by pushing the lamp, the table tent, and the sugar packet holder onto the middle of the mahogany table. "Have you heard about the commercial American Airlines plane that'd been hijacked last week? SE333?" he asked, lifting a sugar packet out of the holder and throwing it onto the table.

Matt furrowed his eyebrows at the abrupt change in topic. "Wait…"

"Or the kidnapping of the director of the National Police Agency who was later found hanged. Heard about that?" He threw down another sugar packet onto the table beside the original one, and Matt wasn't familiar with this bit of news, but he stayed quiet, letting Mello continue.

"Or the kidnapping of Sayu Yagami, daughter of deputy director Soichiro Yagami, who had worked with L in 2004." Another packet. "Or the orchestrated media blackouts on every news channel in the world." Another. "Tell me you know about those things."

"I thought they were done by anti-Kira terrorist groups," Matt mumbled.

"They are. An anti-Kira terrorist group, I mean." Mello looked up from his sugar packets now, and the expression on his face was dead serious — none of that cordial smile bullshit he'd been using all night. This was Mello, all right — Mello in a recognizable state for once, somber and threatening, his eyes glinting with something manic, something on fire. "Tell me, Matt — are you tapped?"

Matt's eyes widened. "No, man," he said quickly, holding up his hands in surrender. "Dude, I'm completely—"

"Put your arms down," Mello hissed, and Matt dropped them dutifully, his body reacting quicker than his mind could. Mello lowered his voice, leaning in on one arm. "I don't know if you're tapped or armed, but I have a Beretta in my pants that tells me I can handle it regardless."

The threat rang clear enough. Matt crossed his arms and averted eye contact, snubbing out his second cigarette and sliding back in his seat petulantly. "I'm not tapped, man, seriously."

"Good." Mello leaned back, but he narrowed his eyes. "I trust you, Matt. So what I'm going to tell you now is something I trust won't leak out to anyone."

"Yeah, okay. I can keep a secret."

Mello looked at him for a beat longer before he began to set up the sugar packets in a row. Then, he slammed the table tent against the lamp with a loud clack.

"Let's just say, in a hypothetical situation, that there's a serial killer out there. And let's also say that he can kill people just by thinking about them." Mello took the table tent — an advertisement for a list of beers they had on promotion — and set it atop the lamp. "And now, let's say that this serial killer's power is not inherent, but transferable. An object that humans can operate, a machine of sorts." Mello held the table tent up like a badge, shaking it for emphasis, and then put it back down on the table.

"Now let's just say that the power was to get into someone else's hands." The table tent drifted towards the sugar packet holder and the four bags of sugar that lay neatly on the opposite side of the table. "Let's pretend, purely hypothetically, that the hijacking was a drop-off of that power, and the kidnapping was a trade for it."

Mello used the table tents to smash two of the sugar packets, grinding them into the mahogany with the sound of the grains of sugar rubbing together. He sent those two packs skating across the wood towards the lamp, and then balanced the table tent on top of the small plastic holder.

"If you were the serial killer…" Mello trailed his finger back to the lamp and rested his hand over top of it. "What would you do?"

Matt's eyes trailed from the sugar packets to the lamp to Mello's gloved finger to Mello's face, lit from below by the lamp's orange glow.

This was a lot. A whole metric fuckton. Matt knew Mello was powerful, but he didn't know that he was… you know, take-over-the-world powerful.

"I would, uh," he mumbled, cleared his throat, and then pointed to the lamp. "I would want whoever took the power away from me to be dead."

"That's right," Mello nodded, like a teacher praising his pupil. "Now imagine that this power was shared between a group of, say, eleven criminals… all of whom have had histories of corruption and dirtied their hands plenty." His finger ghosted the lamp, across the table, and towards the sugar packet holder again. He took out a chunk of pink Sweet'n Low packets until there was only one left, standing out from the white. "And let's say that one of the men in the group," he picked out the remaining pink packet, "is younger, newer, and a transplant from another mob. He's also the keeper of that power, and he doesn't like the men using it for their own gain. What would these men do to him?"

"Kill the bastard," Matt answered.

"And what about the original killer? What would he do?"

"He'd also be pretty eager to kill the bastard, I'd imagine."

Mello lifted the pink packet and held it between two fingers. "That's what I'd imagine, too."

"So how much does, uh, Killer Queen know about…" Matt gestured. "Sweet'n Low?"

"He knows who he is," Mello replied, dangling Sweet'n Low from his fingertips. "He also knows most of the people on his team and where they're located."

"Jesus, Sweetie's fucked, then."

Mello paused for a beat. "Killer Queen wants him dead, and the men he works with don't like him much, either. Where can he go from here?" He put Sweet'n Low on the lip of the ashtray now and jiggled the packet. "Where could he run to when the world's out to get him?"

Matt looked at Mello's remaking of the Passion of Kira through saccharine packets, and then zeroed in on Sweet'n Low standing beside his cigarette butts. Oh, so _that _was what he wanted.

All these fucking years of no contact and suddenly Mello was sitting here because he wanted Matt to keep him away from Kira and the guys.

"Not here, Mello," Matt said, pulling the ashtray away from Sweet'n Low and lighting up a new cigarette. "Not me."

"You said it yourself," Mello reasoned. "You're not working for the SPK, or else I would have known from our rat. You're not working for Blackbird, or else you'd be dead. And you're also not in the mafia, because I definitely would know about that, too. You're alive, you're anonymous, and most of all, I know I can trust you."

Matt inhaled as much smoke as his lungs would take, and then some. "You don't know me, Mello. Haven't even fucking seen me in five years."

"But I _do _know you," Mello countered. "I let you decide all the variables. This is a bar I've never heard of, and I didn't check you for bugs, either. If you'd been working for someone who wanted me dead, I'd already be cold by now. I would have walked right into your trap. You were a gamble, you know that?"

"That just means I don't want you killed. Doesn't mean you can expect me to keep you alive."

"Matt. Don't sell yourself short." Mello went back to his cordial smile, that I'm-good-and-you-know-it smirk, and he pushed his puppet show to the side to lean in closer. "Do you know how hard it is to get a man as intelligent and as skilled as you — a man with your expertise? With your speed, your agility? You already know my modus operandi. You know my weaknesses. You know my strengths. Most of all, Kira has no idea who you are. I think you know where I'm going with this, don't you?"

"Nope."

"Matt… I want you to work for me."

There was a silence that dragged on between them, a long pause that felt like time had stopped except for in their tiny little booth. Mello waited for his response with a confident smirk, and Matt's cigarette was burning down as he took the time to think. Not about his proposal — he already knew the answer to that. But about how it'd come down to this: Mello in this skeevy little dive bar, asking Matt for help in the Kira case after five years of radio silence.

It hurt, somehow.

"Fuck, man," Matt murmured. "There's no reason it has to be me."

"There is, though. You're someone who can move around freely. Someone who's capable, clever and resourceful."

Matt frowned.

"It's just a little job. You won't be doing anything huge; no hijacking, no killing, nothing. Just a simple task. Something I know only you can do." Mello smiled, a flourish and a bow on his great big package of an offer, but Matt knew that inside the prettily gift-wrapped box was just one flaming turd.

"There will be no way for them to trace anything back for you. One little job, and then I leave you alone. I promise," Mello continued, his voice low enough that he knew he was trying to sweet-talk him into it.

"So what do you say, Matt?"

Mello was buttering Matt up like a slice of toast just to slip him into the toaster and grill him to charcoal. Only added insult to injury, but Matt didn't want to dwell on it any longer than he needed to.

So he smiled ruefully and said, "I'm sorry, Mello. I just can't help you. I don't want to be involved in such a high profile case."

Mello stared at him for a long moment, his icy blue eyes flickering like they were taking in as much of Matt's response as he could without exploding. Matt really was expecting rage, too, because the Mello he'd known would have resorted to anger by now.

Instead, Mello shrugged and shook his head, breaking the moment, and time flowed back around them at its normal speed.

"That's really too bad," Mello responded evenly.

That was it? Matt looked at him now, but the storm was gone. Pure calm on his face, as if Matt's rejection didn't mean anything at all.

"Yeah."

"You're valuable," Mello added, sitting up straight again. "It's been refreshing seeing you again, Matt."

Matt smiled half-heartedly. "Wish you the best in your future endeavors."

"Thanks." Mello jerked his chin towards the empty beer bottle on the table. "You want another drink?"

"No, I think I'm good. Are we finished?"

"Yeah, we are."

And so the meeting was adjourned. Mello slid out of the booth to grab his jacket from the hook, and Matt shrugged on his own windbreaker, snubbing his cigarette right at the filter, the mess of sugar packets strewn all over the table like a crime scene.

What did it matter, anyway? Maybe Matt was more sentimental than he'd given himself credit for. It wasn't like he was surprised. Just disappointed.

He stepped aside to let Mello walk out first, his fur jacket now engulfing him like some rich panther on the red carpet. Matt followed behind him like a paparazzo, not missing the way the bar patrons turned to look at Mello as he walked past. They moved to the parking lot, where the air had gotten considerably more chilly, and Matt shoved his hands into his pockets to keep warm.

Mello stalled once they got outside, the yellow neon sign catching his hair, making it look almost green. They stood a considerable distance apart, like a couple on their first date.

"That your car?" Mello asked, jerking his chin to his Camaro. It was an old make from '68 and stood out like a sore thumb in Atwater Village, all sharp edges, red as a blushing virgin.

"Yup."

"Flashy. Suits you, though." Mello looked away, rubbing his arms unconsciously.

"Thanks. And you…? Where's your ride?"

"I walked," Mello replied.

"Huh. You live close by?" Matt asked.

"Yeah," Mello clearly lied. "Well, it was nice seeing you."

"OK. You, too."

They split ways, awkwardly, and Matt walked towards his car and unlocked it. Despite himself, he glanced back to see Mello who hadn't moved and was watching him from afar, perhaps waiting for him to leave first before he headed to his actual destination.

Mello looked cold, his arms crossed. Cold and furry. In a weird place in the back of Matt's mind, he felt an inkling of pity for him, even though he knew that feeling pity for Mello was probably one of the seven deadly sins. But he knew that he'd just rejected his job offer, wasted his evening, and now was leaving him in the chilly LA night to fend for himself looking like an escapee from a Hells Angels-themed sex dungeon, and, well…

Well, he didn't need to justify it. He just felt bad. Like there was still some unfinished business left over.

"Hey," Matt called out.

"Yeah?"

"You want a ride home?"

"What?" Mello asked, taking two steps closer.

"A ride home. Y'know, like…" Matt was starting to doubt himself a few seconds too late, but he soldiered on. "The least I could do. I know I can't help you, but maybe I can do something now, y'know."

Mello tilted his head, almost as if balancing the risks and benefits on some mental sliding scale. Matt hadn't seen Mello unsure all night, so the excess silence that dragged on between them at that moment felt at once uncomfortable and refreshing. A few cars drove by behind him as Mello considered, long enough that it added insult to injury.

And then Mello finally spoke, just when Matt was about to give up. "Yeah. That sounds good."


	5. Chapter 5

They were on the road, traffic light enough in the Los Angeles night that Matt could gun down the interstate without playing bumper cars. It was a twenty minute drive on the highway to Mello's apartment — Matt would have to go all the way back east to get back to his place later, which seemed like a long time coming — and all the exit signs were starting to blur into each other the farther west he got.

Truthfully, he was getting a little impatient. If Mello had said he lived in Westside earlier, Matt would have just said fuck it.

His body had _not _prepared to stay out for this long. That was why he was only maybe 40% present for the current conversation about the road construction, and 60% wishing that he was high right now.

As soon as they exited the freeway and pulled up at a red light, Matt lifted a cigarette from his chest pocket without even thinking. He lit up through the car lighter, had it back inside the jack by the time another car had joined them at the intersection. He'd even gone so far as to roll down the window a crack out of courtesy, but Mello spoke up anyway.

"You smoke a lot, huh?"

Matt shrugged dismissively. "Yeah, it's a bad habit. Blame my French side, I guess."

"Aren't you Canadian?"

Matt sighed, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and holding it between his fingers by the wheel. "It bother you, man?"

Mello shrugged. "No, my men smoke plenty, too."

"Yeah. And they're American." Matt glanced at Mello, his arms and legs crossed. "'Cuz nicotine addiction doesn't discriminate."

"You're right," Mello agreed uncharacteristically.

Matt looked over again, embarrassment suddenly creeping up his neck. "So, uh," he mumbled. "You really don't smoke?"

"Not at all." Mello didn't seem offended. There was a tinge of pride in his voice.

"Don't drink, don't smoke, huh?"

Mello chuckled, a tight vicelike control over his laughter. "I've got all I need and more inside a bar of chocolate," he replied, smoothly.

"You and your chocolate, man," Matt forced a laugh as his jerry-rigged GPS, using his custom-designed OS Miku, chirped that he needed to turn right at the next corner. His laughter fizzled out. "You live all the way in Westside, huh?"

"Yeah. One of my apartments, anyway."

"How many do you _have_, man?" Just half a mile from their destination, Miku informed them.

"A few." Mello smiled, wound-up and proud all at the same time. "One in Naples."

Matt echoed him in surprise. "What? _Naples_?"

"Yeah."

"Why Naples?"

Mello just shook his head, the smile still lingering on his face like a flashing billboard sign. "Why not?"

Matt was beginning to put together a picture of Mello's life after running away from Wammy's, and the image said one thing: Mello was filthy fucking rich. Matt wasn't doing so bad himself — poker at casinos was a viable living, and Blackbird had provided a steady cash flow — but Mello was talking estates and wearing clothes that had pricetags with more digits than Matt's phone number.

Somehow, it didn't register as strange that he was pulling into the slums of West LA, one of those places where the outside walls were splashed with a sort of dirty muddy color from god-knows-what. It didn't even register as being fucked up when Miku directed them to a sketchy little alleyway between two apartment complexes, where the walls were so narrow that they almost scratched up his Camaro's rearview mirrors, and Mello had to continue the route guidance and bring them to the parking lot around the back.

He pulled up to the decrepit staircase doors, eager to drop Mello off. This was the part where Matt said his goodbyes and Mello thanked him for driving him and then left the fucking car, but Mello didn't move from his seat, his arms and legs still crossed.

"Hm?" Matt frowned and checked the GPS again. "Did I go the wrong way?"

"No, this is right." Matt looked over, and Mello was smiling at him with a dangerous sort of charisma, some sort of energy in his eyes that Matt wasn't sure how to interpret. "But I don't want to go home just yet. Would you park?"

"Park? Man, it's getting a bit late, and I'm starting to get tired—"

"Just a few minutes, Matt," Mello cut in, his voice silky like bread pudding. "There's a parking space up ahead. Give me a few minutes, won't you?"

Matt sighed audibly. He parked dutifully at the space Mello had been gesturing at, right behind a pillar, and then shifted to Park again without cutting the engine so that he could bolt as soon as this was done.

"Okay, now what?" Matt asked, letting the irritation surface. This almost felt like one of those dates gone wrong type horror stories he'd read on Yahoo. If they found his body here tomorrow…

"I just wanted to show you something," Mello said, almost teasingly. "Do you wanna see?"

Matt was starting to get flashbacks to those 90's after school PSAs back on YTV with the two puppets that taught kids not to trust strangers or put things in their mouths. "What," he asked tiredly, just to get it over with.

"A secret," Mello replied.

"_ What_?"

"Kira's power."

The irritation left, rapidly replaced with a cold-blooded fear, seizing its place inside of his veins, turning everything blue and icy. Matt was sure they _were _going to find his fucking body now if Mello didn't leave, because Mello was threatening him inside his own goddamned car, and this was a fucking mistake, this was a goddamned trap, and—

"Get out of my car," Matt said, his voice wavering. "Get out of my fucking car now."

"You don't want to see it at all?"

"No. Get out."

"Millions of people would die to see the way Kira kills. And you're lucky enough to be someone I trust, to whom I want to show how it's done." Mello spoke low, soft. So quiet that the rumble of the engine would drown him out, but Matt still heard every single goddamned word.

"Shut the fuck up, Mello. Get _out_."

"I have it on me right now," he taunted.

Matt breathed in and out deeply, and then looked at Mello, who was staring at him with a heady anticipation. He wouldn't actually do it, would he?

Looking at Mello's insane fucking expression, he wasn't so sure.

"I don't know what kind of fucking games you're playing, but I don't want anything to do with them." Matt undid his seatbelt, reached over Mello's body and threw open the passenger door for him. "Out."

"No."

Matt tried to shove him, pushing him bodily with his whole weight, but Mello immediately gripped his forearm and twisted it back at an angle that joints were most definitely not supposed to bend. It only lasted a fraction of a second, if that — Matt winced and Mello let go, almost as if he didn't need to do much else but give him a teaser of what would come if Matt dared use force.

Matt slumped back to his seat, and Mello slammed the door shut with enough ferocity that the whole car shook along with it. "Don't fucking do that again," Mello warned, his voice hard.

Matt didn't respond, looking away.

"Your loss," Mello continued, crossing his arms over his chest. The car continued to stall, the beams of his car lights casting a Venn Diagram against the gritty wall before them. No one else was in the parking lot, at least, but it felt far from empty — cars lined all the narrow spaces almost bumper-to-bumper, making him feel even more claustrophobic.

Matt really walked right into this trap. Hell, he fucking set up the trap for himself to traipse into.

Seconds ticked on into minutes, the tension inside his Camaro becoming thick enough to slice with a rusty butter knife. Mello wasn't going to leave his car, and Matt didn't have a way to get home without it — it would take him hours to walk the distance back to Koreatown.

Mello finally decided it was time to break the silence between them. "We're not finished, Matt."

"Not finished _what_?" Matt snapped back immediately.

"Our previous conversation. I wasn't going to pursue it any further at the bar, with everyone watching."

"What?"

"My offer."

Matt inhaled slowly, the severity of the night settling into his bones like something cold and sharp. "I said no."

"You're not listening," Mello replied evenly. Matt could see Mello lounging in the seat relaxedly enough from his peripheral vision and it pissed him off even more. "I don't have a choice in the matter, Matt. I'm dealing with a high pressure situation."

"You have plenty of other mafia contacts."

"No, Matt. It's _your _expertise that I want."

Matt crossed his arms. "Well, we can't always get what we want, can we? Besides, what the fuck do you even know about me?"

"I know you're good," Mello said, slowly. "I know you're the best in the field. Without you, Blackbird wouldn't have even been half of what it was."

This spiel again. "You haven't seen me in five fucking years. You don't know shit about me, so stop hounding my ass."

"Five years in the House together, and I don't know about you, Matt?"

"And then five years without any contact," Matt snapped back. "Or did you forget?"

Mello finally looked at him, as if challenging him to keep eye contact. Matt looked at him, too. There it was, all the anger and hatred bubbling over like a shaken-up pop can between the two of them, like the lid just wasn't heavy enough to keep it under the surface anymore.

"What is it that _you _want?" Mello asked, sharply, and then leaned closer as if he was about to pounce.

Matt didn't have an answer. He really didn't know why he was weird and touchy all over, other than the fact that he was dying to go home already because the shot was calling for him.

So he said eloquently. "I don't know."

"You don't know."

"No." Matt gave him a once-over. "But it doesn't mean you get to be an asshole."

Mello made a face. "How am I an asshole?"

"Well, for one," Matt said, leaning back in his seat. "Don't bring Kira's powers around, you fucking psycho."

Mello didn't respond right away. "This is a dangerous situation, Matt."

"Okay. And you're gonna threaten me? Your own fucking friend?"

Matt was facing Mello's complacent profile when Mello shook his head, his eyes icy and distant. "It's not like that."

"Guess not," Matt muttered. "Since this is just a business proposal."

Mello looked over. "We're fighting something bigger than us right now. You know that?"

"Yeah," Matt mumbled tonelessly, gripping the fabric of his windbreaker between his fingertips.

"And you're extremely good, Matt — anybody could see that." Mello paused, almost as if for dramatic flourish, and Matt looked back ahead. "And you _are _my friend. I trust you."

"Am I, now," Matt asked sardonically.

"Yes. I trust you enough that I would come to you personally to ask for your help. What I'm doing right now is something bigger than I can do alone, and I want only people I can trust on my team." Mello paused. "Kira's weapon is only a failsafe."

Matt squinted, grabbing another cigarette from his pack. "A failsafe, huh?"

"Yes. I can never be too careful, Matt."

"Dude, you're saying you'll kill me in the hypothetical situation that I—" Matt kicked his boot up against the wheel as he lit up his cigarette, belatedly remembering his gun that threatened to fall out. He put his leg back down, looking away. "That's not an excuse," he completed lamely.

"Listen," Mello said softly, almost mercifully. "I'm not a gambler, but I trust you." He paused, collected his thoughts. "Or rather, I want to trust you. I have no choice but to trust you. I want to believe that you'll help me when I'm in need — just like I would for you, even if you'd never come to me."

Matt cocked his head, as if to say, "yeah, I wouldn't," but he didn't gratify him with a response. Mello paused again, this time as if waiting for Matt to say something, but when the silence established itself in the air, he continued.

"The world is out to get me. Kira wants me dead, and my men are killing almost anybody to keep the powers within the family. They don't trust me. I don't trust them. I know they'll sell me out if it means they have to keep Kira's power to themselves." And then, "You're it, Matt. You're all that's left. I don't have anything else to turn to."

Matt kept his head down, his arms crossed, his face blank. "Could've found me years ago, y'know," he said, under his breath.

It was almost a nonsequitur — it came out of Matt's mouth without him even realizing what he was saying. Mello shifted in Matt's peripheral vision.

"I couldn't contact you," Mello said, as if defensively.

"Yeah you could have. You knew where I was. I never even left England til I turned 17."

"Not like that," Mello responded. "If I'd implicated you, what do you think would have happened to you?"

Matt shrugged, blowing out a huge lungful of smoke against the car's roof.

"You would have been dead." Mello said this with so much conviction that it felt like a belief, and Matt couldn't help but glance back up at such a resolute turn of phrase. Mello was looking at him now — _really _looking at him, with too much presence and too much energy.

"And you know what, Matt?" Mello continued, his eyes shimmering with something Matt couldn't understand. "I'm glad you aren't."

Matt looked away.

"So," Mello continued. "It's just a small job, and you'll never have to see me again. We're fucking close to getting Kira's head, you know? You're just my ticket there."

Matt hummed in response.

"Just this once," Mello said. No, pleaded, but in a way that felt like he knew what he was doing. "Please, Matt."

Matt shrugged. Mello waited patiently for his answer, but Matt made sure not to say anything until he had enough smoke in between them to obscure any thoughts he might have playing on his face.

Matt had no obligation to him, no responsibility. He had no reason to help. Mello wasn't his goddamned friend anymore. He didn't need to save his ass any more than he needed to save Near's, and fuck, he hadn't talked to Near since 2004.

Mello was still looking at him when he looked back, rolling down the window and flicking the butt out into the parking lot where it brushed against the next car.

"I have my own life too, you know," Matt replied. Slow and steady. "I'm busy and shit, yeah?"

Mello looked at him. His eyes were flickering back and forth, almost as if reading more into Matt than Matt even knew he was giving away, but he struggled to keep eye contact this time.

"Of course you are," Mello allowed, after a few moments, the cordial mask falling back onto his face and covering all the remaining traces of vulnerability. "I wouldn't want to take you out of your busy schedule.

"Yeah, so." Matt nodded once. "We'll see."

"Of course." Mello smiled quickly. "You're busy."

They were both playing a game of Matt saying no — and now, Mello did an impression of someone who needed to leave, pulling his phone to glance at the time.

"I should get going," he said, even going so far as to act sheepish about it. Matt nodded, jerking his head towards the door. "Thanks for driving me."

"Yeah, no worries."

"Goodnight, Matt."

And suddenly, the dam had lifted. Mello unlocked the door and slid out gracefully, slamming it behind him and gliding out into the runway between the cars. Matt took a second longer to breathe, and then pulled out, too.

As he looked back to check for other cars, he saw that Mello was not heading for the stairwell but to the opposite side. Farther down the lot.

Matt stalled, watching as Mello pulled out a ring of keys from his back pocket when he neared a gorgeous black '67 Chevy Impala that Matt had somehow never noticed on his way in. Mello unlocked, opened the door and climbed in, flashing the lights against the wall.

Matt was still idling when Mello pulled out. Three-point turned. And then nodded at him through the driver's window as he passed, Matt's jaw dropping as he realized what was going on.

Mello had predicted that Matt was going to offer to drive him home, and then gave him a blind location so that he didn't know where he really lived.

Jesus Christ, what the fuck? Mello was scary. Matt all but revved his Camaro behind him, eager to pull out of that fucking parking lot and get _home_.

* * *

Home was a thirty minute drive, but Matt made it in twenty-five, and now he was pushing into the kitchen cupboards trying to find latex and balloons to curb the feeling in his chest flaring in need.

Percs couldn't soothe him for long enough. He needed something substantial, something good, something something something something.

Before long, he was on the couch in front of his tiny TV, knocking over all his empty beer bottles with the scale in front of him, his spoon in his hand, his friendly little Zippo providing a cooking flame. He hadn't bothered to turn on the lights and his fingers fumbled as he stared at the poorly dissolved solution in the bluish glow of a computer screen.

He had to breathe, but he couldn't help that his feelings were coursing through his nervous system with a disgusting lucidity. He felt every single bad thought in 1080p, too loud and too clear, and he needed his fucking shot. He needed that needle like he was fucking starving, and god, he would never go another ten fucking hours without heroin. Percs were okay, but_nothing _could ever fucking compare to his H.

Syringe to fluid, pull the plunger back, watch the barrel fill up with something muddy, murky, and gorgeous. Roll up the sleeves, move the needle over his forearm, and fuck the tourniquet because he knew the roadmap to his veins better than he knew his own face at this point. Ease the bevel in slowly, and feel the hitch of his breath as it caught his flesh and sunk into the skin like a drop of water into sea.

One, two, three. Take a deep breath. Push the plunger, and…

Feel bliss.

Pure, unadulterated fucking bliss.

The rush ballooned into him with the consistency of Pepto Bismol, filling out his little crevices and shitty spots until he was all one even shade of warmth from head to toe. The thoughts slowed down and and faded — the anger disappeared quickly like something that went away real quick. He lay his head back on the arm of the couch, looking away from the mess of gadgets and consoles strewn all over the floor like messy pieces of a jigsaw puzzle and towards the cornflake ceiling instead, which pressed down on him like a weighted blanket, his mouth going numb and soft.

It was harder than he'd ever banged a shot back. He wasn't really someone who did it to nod, but he…

… Matt faded in and out of consciousness, feeling the ceilings and the walls spin around him like a nice kaleidoscope. He was in his little apartment, feeling safe like he was a baby in the planet's nest, sucking on the teat of divine happiness. He was the warm little center that the life of this world crowded around — and he knew that it was Good.

Slowly but surely, lying down in his spinning room, he felt like he was Matt again, except warmer and nicer; a streamlined code without all the unnecessary lines and comments. This was his favorite part: he was buzzed, doped, but not too high, not lose-his-face-and-see-God high.

He was feeling alright, and being alright was the best feeling Matt could ever ask for.

He rolled over far enough to take a cigarette from the half-opened carton nestled in the plastic 7-11 bag from a few days ago. He had a few more left in this one, and maybe a pack or two to last him until tomorrow. He returned as soon as he took the cigarette between his fingers, sinking back down onto his couch with an _oof_, trying to melt into the way the room or maybe his head was spinning.

And with the familiar feeling of smoke couching his lungs with a warm sort of comfort, he remembered the bar again.

Matt and Mello were never rivals. Even in the House, the fuzzy little ball of memory of the House, occupying a place far back in his mind and sticking to the corners of his brain like wads of gum — they were friends. Best friends, even.

The past five years have hardened Mello into a seasoned criminal, a real gangster. It was a little scary.

The scarier part, though, was the realization that Mello wasn't lying when he said he had nothing left. Matt didn't believe him then, but with heroin in his system, suddenly it wasn't so hard to accept.

Maybe Matt really _was _everything that was keeping his childhood friend from dying at the hands of a supernatural serial killer.

Matt opened his mouth and watched as the smoke tendrils from his cigarette spiralled towards the water-stained ceiling, serpentlike and slow like a dance with the Heavens.

And, well...

Matt blew at the smoke, scattering it easily.

He had to admit: being needed felt pretty goddamned good.


	6. Chapter 6

It was approaching four o'clock from the sun's rays were streaming into the hotel room. Jamie had drifted off again, breathing deeply beside him. Mello was slumped over his cell phone, staring at his SMS inbox.

The sliver of an unread message said one word, encrypted through a code that Mello had learned how to read when he was younger. "Ready."

His finger hovered over the drop-down menu, and then he pressed Delete.

Yesterday, Matt had called him back to tell him that he had decided to work with him on the case. Mello hadn't been expecting much else.

He flipped the phone shut, sneering to himself. The clap of his cell phone was loud enough that Jamie jolted from his sleep, pulling himself off of his front and wiping the side of his mouth unconsciously. "Sorry, M," he mumbled, his voice warm and thick with slumber. "Must've dozed off…"

He sat up, running a hand through his hair, and Mello allowed himself to look for a second longer. The afternoon light caught Jamie's skin and made it look golden, his lean and wiry muscles tawny like a statue made of bronze, the smattering of tattoos a black rust.

Beautiful specimen. Not much else to offer.

Jamie caught him staring and grinned sleepily. Mello grunted in response, setting his phone back on the bedside table.

"About time," Mello responded sharply.

The boy grinned even more widely, rolling off the bed. He pulled a pair of black jeans from carpeted floor over his legs and Mello tore his eyes away finally, getting up. He strode over to the glass coffee table by the couch, bending down to the pile of chocolate bars and unwrapping one forcefully.

Today he was to meet Matt again. He'd tasked him with setting up a radio controlled explosive device in their new base, creating a surveillance system that included both visual and audio taps. They'd had a predesignated control room, leftover from Barker's days, but only a third of the cameras would be accessible by the rest of the mafia men.

The rest would track invisibly, accessible only through the encrypted system that Matt was to program and watch over.

It was a highly specialized task, but he knew Matt needed just half of the time any other lackey would need to prepare for it. Somehow, though, Matt had managed to exceed even that, sending him an SMS a mere two days later.

Alistair worked at a crawl speed in comparison to him.

Mello bit a piece off of his chocolate viciously, glancing back to see Jamie shrugging on his leather jacket, fully dressed, fiddling with his belt buckle. The boy smirked when their eyes made contact, his blonde hair falling over his eyes. "See you next time, M?"

Mello turned away.

Jamie chuckled, heading towards the door with a practiced sort of grace. "Take it easy, Boss," he called out, and fluttered a hand in a half-hearted wave. Mello jerked his head goodbye.

The door shut behind him, leaving Mello alone with his reservations.

He hadn't thought about Wammy's House in so long that it had become nothing but semantic memory. Working with Matt felt like reanimating a corpse of his childhood past, and Mello was in no mood to deal with dead bodies that hadn't been sanctioned by the notebook.

Mello redressed, finding the rest of his clothing from around the carpeted floor, and slipped his Beretta back at his back.

He didn't need to check out of the hotel. It was a mob-run place in downtown LA and the staff knew him by Dante Cruciani, a pseudonym he'd used back when he was still in New York. All he had to do was come when he had to, and leave when he wanted to.

Everything else would be taken care of for him simply for being one of Rod Ross' men.

As he exited the elevators to the golden lobby decorated with chandeliers, he spotted Jamie again, sitting in the open lounge by himself with a martini, his long legs crossed. He seemed distracted — staring amusedly with a broad smirk at the television screen on the wall, his fingers playing with the olive in his drink.

He didn't notice as Mello slipped by. Mello slid on his sunglasses as he strode towards the door to the glittering pavement under the blazing sun.

* * *

Mello spotted Matt's cherry red Camaro the second he turned onto the road, surrounded by unused cars that swamped it. In the distance, the tall chimneys billowing smoke were the only other things he could see in the flat horizon.

They'd chosen to meet at a large abandoned parking lot near an industrial trading hub that had since dried up in the New Age, close enough to where the new mansion was, but deserted for miles in all directions.

Seclusion was a necessity for all of his meetings with Matt. Alistair had been enough of a mistake.

When Mello peeled into the lot, Matt was leaning against the hood of his car by the chain-link fence. He had a cigarette perched between his lips, enjoying the light breeze of the late afternoon sun with his hands deep in his pockets. Mello parked, exited the car, and then headed towards the trunk without another word.

Matt finished his cigarette and ambled over to join him. "Good morning," Matt greeted, a dry smile on his face.

Mello ignored him, unlocking the trunk first, quickly enough so that Matt would know that he didn't have the time to dawdle. He looked up to make sure he had Matt's attention, and when he saw him staring at his car curiously, he began.

"This is a fake bottom." Mello patted the black carpet lightly, and then slammed the trunk back shut. "Underneath is 5 pounds of Napalm, so try not to hit any potholes on the way to the base."

Matt raised an eyebrow under his windswept hair, but didn't reply.

"You're going to have to move these into the base, and find a way to rig it so that it evades detection, but still collapses everything upon detonation." Mello had decided to leave Matt with some freedom — he didn't mind how he did it, as long as the job was done.

"I can't tear down the walls, right?"

"No." Mello continued back to the driver's seat, opening the door and pulling out a manila folder. He looked at Matt over the top of the car. "You remember the layout?"

"Kinda. Twenty cameras in the main room and a hundred and sixty-four everywhere else, yeah?"

"Perfect." Mello slid the manila folder over the roof, along with the key to the Impala. It was just one of the mafia's many cars, and he didn't mind letting Matt test drive it like he seemed eager to. "This is the blueprint to the base, in case you need it. And this," he rapped the Impala, "is your car for the next three days."

He allowed Matt a second of childlike excitement before he continued. "After you're done, dump it."

Matt's expression dropped like a plane losing altitude. "Dump it?" he echoed. "You're gonna dump the car?"

"Yes, Matt." This was getting off-topic, and Mello dug into his back pockets to retrieve the key to the base that he'd made a copy of. He handed it over to Matt, who took it distractedly. "Return this to me when we're finished."

Matt nodded as he pocketed the key, caressing the car as if Mello were leading it to a slaughterhouse and Matt was trying to make its last moments peaceful. Mello glanced down at his hands as they touched its tinted windows.

"You should use gloves," Mello added. "Or you'll leave fingerprints behind."

The comment seemed to pull Matt out of his reverie. He shrunk back like the car had burnt him. "Oh, shit. Sorry."

"The car is fine, but be careful when you get to the base. By the way, I already have the original surveillance cameras there, so I'll be watching. Don't do anything funny."

Matt rolled his eyes, looking at Mello with something that would resemble a glare if Matt knew how to weaponize any sort of malice. "You know me, I'm hilarious."

Mello didn't respond. Instead, he busied himself by running through his mental checklist, and felt reassured that he'd finished his mission statement. It had hardly taken five minutes — and he was on schedule to head back to the current base without arousing suspicion. He was going to monitor Matt remotely, and wipe the footage at the end of the day.

He trusted Matt to finish the job without him having to watch him too closely.

"I'll drop by every so often," Mello lied, fishing his keyring from his pocket. He had a car in the lot somewhere — one of Rod's old Buicks. He'd ride that to the base today.

He looked up to conclude their meeting when he caught Matt staring at his car remote with a slightly more unreadable expression — envy, perhaps. "What?"

"How much fucking money do you have again?" Matt asked, slowly.

"Enough to not worry," he replied, smirking.

"And how many cars is that?" Matt asked, shaking his head.

"A lot of our men have expensive cars. Unfortunately, the dead can't drive."

Matt leaned back, running his eyes over the Impala in a way that felt too close to longing. "I could use a new car," he said, a slow drawl infecting his tone.

"You can think about that later when you're finished the job," Mello snapped, and then pressed the car remote in his hands. A Buick a few rows down flashed its headlights, and he turned to it bodily. "I'm heading back."

"Wait."

"Yeah?"

Mello paused, looking back to see Matt with his hands back in his pockets, but with an expression on his face that looked giddy, pleased with something, his mouth unfurled into an almost feline smirk.

"You should get a new hacker," Matt said, his smirk unravelling into a dazzling grin. "Your firewall is outdated as shit."

Mello had to hold in the curse that threatened to spill. He knew Snydar's hacking skills were subpar in comparison to Matt's expertise, as he had been one of the most prolific hackers in the New Age — but to hold it over him gave him a bolt of irritation.

"Behave yourself, Matt." Mello glowered, but it had no effect on Matt, whose grin broke out into full-on laugh.

Mello rolled his eyes and walked away. He did not have time to deal with Matt's antics. They weren't children anymore.

* * *

It was the first time in the past three days that Mello had returned to the mansion in the Junction. Matt was scheduled to finish all of his work today, and Mello knew he wouldn't be able to go home until they'd wrapped everything up for the night.

It was only midnight, but Mello felt exhaustion creeping up his spine. Hoope's ten million dollar fund had transferred into Rod's account, and they'd agreed to divvy it up evenly. A margin cut of Mello's income would be split amongst the other nine men, leaving him with an ultimately smaller sum.

Mello knew Rod spoke money like his native tongue, and if losing a couple hundred thousand meant that he could keep in his good graces, then he was pleased to settle for less.

Pulling up to the mansion, he parked his bike a few minutes' walk away underneath a scarcely used overpass, near junked and abandoned cars that lined the aisles of dirt. The base looked different than it did when the sun was still shining. With hardly any streetlights out here in the desert, it was difficult to isolate their base behind the barbed wire fences.

The immediate area around it was all industrial buildings and train tracks for transport. Barker had clearly liked it as it was close to their old trading hub, but Mello was more fond of the fact that it was difficult to target through satellite, difficult to get to, difficult to find, and cluttered with so much noise around it that it was virtually unnoticeable by the unsuspecting passerby.

He climbed up the stairs that led to the front entrance and unlocked the door with his key, entering the base through the main lounge.

Along with the ten million, Hoope had also leaked the satellite images from the SPK's mafia files. None of the bases they were watching had been correct. That meant that they still had time, and Mello was feeling generous enough tonight that he would let Matt work at his own pace.

The lights were off in the main lounge when he walked in. Mello noticed a sliver of warm orange light emitting from under a crack in the door, and as he'd gotten closer, he smelled it again: the stench of cigarette smoke, shrinkwrapping the furniture like a housewarming gift.

When Mello opened the office doors, there Matt stood, leaning over the desk with both hands on the surface. He glanced up at the noise, and then his face broke out into a warm smile that felt at home, easy, defenceless.

"Hey," Matt said. "Welcome back."

The smell of cigarettes emanated from a makeshift ashtray Matt had made out of a mug he must have found in the house, sitting at the corner of the desk, nearly a pack's worth inside of it already. Matt's head was down, his reddish-brown hair catching the lamp's light, reading the surveillance blueprints carefully.

Mello stalked over to take a look. It had been a few days — Matt had crossed out all of the rooms he'd already finished, and all that remained was the main lounge area. Matt held the pen in his hand as he scanned over at the room layout, spinning it idly between his fingers as he read.

Mello spoke up. "How's your progress?"

Matt looked up and strung his goggles down around his neck, rubbing his eyes viciously as he spoke. "Tried to avoid all the statues… at least, the ones that looked like they belonged to you." He replaced his goggles, blinking the vestiges of his tiredness away and pointing at the bedroom headquarters on the second floor of the blueprint. "Some in the doorknobs and lamps. Y'know, standard shit, but I tried to make sure they couldn't get traced back to you even if they're found out."

Mello nodded, looking back down at the map in between them. "You didn't wire the lounge yet?" he asked, pointing at the largest room in the mansion.

"Nope. You'll be using that room the most, so I wanted to make sure I could do it the most discreetly."

"And the explosives?"

"Got 'em all lined up against the foundation walls now, waiting for detonation."

"Where'd you put them?"

"Hidden inside the storage rooms on the shelves, the other ones are in the vents." Matt shrugged. "I made sure they looked like those square boxes of rat poison, so as far as anybody's concerned, you guys have a rodent problem."

Mello nodded again, leaning against the desk. "You want a break?" he asked, taking note of how Matt seemed to be routinely blinking away his sleepiness.

Matt thought for a minute, and then smiled a little bit, a little sheepishly, like a child caught in a lie. "Maybe just a few more minutes."

Mello allowed it. He pushed himself off the desk and shrugged off his biker jacket, exiting back to the main lounge to give Matt his space. When he dropped off his jacket in the lounge, he decided to assess the rest of the house, walking up the rickety stairs that creaked underneath his weight.

The surveillance room was upstairs, so he predicted that he'd be in and out quite often. A cursory glance around the master bedroom — undoubtedly the one that Rod would take for himself, and so among the more important rooms in terms of discretion — showed nothing of suspicion.

There were Virgin Mary statues everywhere. Matt had left them out as red herrings; Mello would have done the same. Peeling back the sheer grommet curtains, he found one of the cameras: nestled behind the folds of fabric, like a small black hole in the rod. He found another in not the television screen, but the remote control that had been drilled in place. Another not in the lampshade that stood in the corner of the room, but on the stick, masked to look like a small screw.

He'd known that he could give Matt full jurisdiction, but somehow he still felt impressed. Mello knew he was good — but he'd forgotten just _how _good he was.

He toured the bathrooms and the play rooms quickly, finding a similar pattern. Matt liked to avoid the obvious spots, and place them almost in plain view. The rigs themselves looked cheap, too. The one he'd found in the nail holding a hanging wall painting had been attached through strands of hot glue.

When he walked back downstairs, Matt had relocated into the main lounge, sitting on one of the couches smoking, waiting for Mello to call the end of his break. The lights were on now, bathing the whole room with a golden hue, and the lounge looked homely in the light, making the whole mansion feel lived-in.

Matt glanced up at the noise of Mello's boots, and pressed his cigarette butt into the makeshift ashtray-mug clasped between his thighs as Mello rounded the steps. When he reached the floor, Matt stood up from the couch to stretch. He looked thin in his form-fitting long-sleeved shirt — it draped his shoulders like he could barely fill in the fabric.

Matt finished stretching, turning to look at Mello.

"You feeling better?" Mello asked.

"Last lap," Matt replied, grabbing his toolbox and lugging it towards the fireplace. "You gonna watch how I do it?"

"Yes," Mello answered, taking a seat on the settee that he'd already decided was his. He slid his Beretta from his back, placing it onto the table beside him, and crossed his legs, unwrapping a bar of chocolate as he did so. "Remember your gloves."

Matt nodded dutifully, grabbing a pair of elbow-length gloves from his toolbox and slipping them on. Mello was expecting something more nimble, but he stayed quiet, watching as Matt crouched to retrieve the camera bugs from his bag, a whole bouquet of wires clasped in his fist.

Matt pulled his goggles off again, dropping them to his neck. Mello looked away towards the ornate clock beside the display of Virgin Mary's from the fireplace mantle. It was a golden carriage clock that Mello had found in an antique shop years ago — it had been in his apartment until he decided to ship it to the base.

Matt sat down on the floor, removing a screwdriver from his toolbox, and then used it to unscrew the back of the clock. With a surgeon's precision, Matt took it apart: the clock movement, its skin, and both hands, until all that was left was the glass carriage it had sit in. Then he threaded the small camera through the clock movement, using it to replace the cap nut — and Mello raised an eyebrow in spite of himself.

Hidden in plain view.

"How'd you learn how to fix clocks?" Mello asked conversationally, recrossing his legs, flicking a tongue over his chocolate bar.

Matt looked up at the question, but then he shrugged and looked back down. "It's just a Quartz clock. You know me… all I do is take shit apart, and put it back together for shits and giggles."

"Like what?"

"Like…" Matt tapped the camera with a finger. "Webcams. Or, I'unno. Cars." He fiddled with the clock thread now, screwing it back in place inside the carriage, and squinted an eye tiredly. "My life," he joked, sarcastic.

Mello chuckled, leaning back in his seat.

Matt shrugged again, trying to slot the clock back in. It refitted with a snap, and then he rescrewed the back. "Can't learn anything about anything until I take it apart, yeah?" He turned the clock around and looked at it straight on, and then tilted it towards Mello. "What do you think?"

The cap nut sat on the ground still, and in its place was a covert black lens. It was tiny — it probably couldn't capture high quality images given its size — but it looked inconspicuous regardless.

"Not bad," Mello answered, biting a piece off.

"Yeah, it's pretty good," Matt replied. He stood up with a sigh, his bones creaking, and replaced it onto the mantel, ambling towards the display case of china next. It was ornate, containing several pieces of golden-plated china glassware that were undoubtedly expensive — the collection belonged to Barker. Matt pulled open the doors, and then immediately focused his attention on the hinge, unscrewing the nail.

When he removed it, he held the screwdriver in his mouth like a dog with a bone, and then he fitted the camera to face inwardly to record the mirrored back behind the china display.

Mello leaned forward in his seat, kicking his foot up and down, and decided to shift gears. "What did you find out about my men?"

Matt paused. "Huh?"

"You hacked my firewall. What'd you find out?"

Matt looked back, his eyebrows raised in amusement. "Your hacker's shit is what I found out," he replied dryly, bending over to retrieve his toolbox.

Mello frowned and looked away. "What does that mean?"

"Found your location, for one thing." Matt walked over to stand before a vase beside the display case, pushing it up and peering at the bottom of it. "District Five, right? Near Skid Row?"

Mello didn't respond, crossing his arms. Matt looked back at the silence, and then smiled at Mello's reaction. "Yeah, so. You should probably get a new guy."

"He's the best in cybertech these days," Mello defended, more his own pride than Snydar's name.

"Jesus, hardly. Even dudes off 4chan know how to use a VPN."

Mello narrowed his eyes. "Is that a new hacking collective?"

Matt looked at him with an expression that looked like it was on the edge of laughing aloud, but he'd managed to hold back. "Nevermind," he said, and his eyes dropped away as he headed over to the bookshelf, giving up on the vase for the time being. "By the way… do you always have to come to see me with a gun?"

"What?"

"As in," Matt said, taking another bug from the floor, and then jerking his head towards Mello's Beretta on the tabletop. "That thing. It's a hazard."

Mello frowned at his question. "What, are you not armed, Matt?"

"Of course I am. But I'm not showing it off, yeah?"

"Walking around unarmed is the stupidest thing a man can do," Mello retorted haughtily, picking up his pistol with his other hand.

Matt paused, staring at his gun, before shaking his head. "I personally think that planting explosives in his very own working space is the stupidest thing a man can do, but… your mileage may vary, I guess."

"It's just a safety precaution."

"One hell of a way to stay safe." Matt looked back, a smile running along his face as if he was about to tell a joke. "But hey, when you do decide to blow things up, call me up so I can watch the fireworks, yeah?"

The joke was far from funny, but Mello felt something else other than forced amusement at his comment. He suddenly recalled a distant memory from Wammy's House again, of watching the fireworks with Matt one cool autumn evening.

As quickly as it came, he waved the thought away, scowling to himself. Matt hadn't been looking at him when he mentioned it, and he thanked God for that.

* * *

By the time they had finished wiring the rest of the main lounge, it was close to six in the morning. Matt had an expression on his face that resembled death, yawning and his nose running so much that it was almost comical. They were both walking back outside towards the dirt roads without another word, the ground the color of taupe beneath the cloudy sunrise that stretched for miles all around them.

They reached the Impala, parked near the overpass of junk cars, a few hunks of metal away from Mello's motorcycle.

Matt yawned and sniffed again, rubbing his nose raw and pink. Mello had to reserve the urge to give him a tissue. He had something else for him instead.

"Here." Mello took a pack of Camel Reds out of his biker jacket. He'd seen Matt smoking them all night in the dive bar, and again tonight while he wired the cameras and ran out halfway through.

"Oh, for real?" Matt asked, sniffling again.

"Yeah," Mello said, tossing the pack over. Matt had to pause mid-yawn to catch it in his hands, and then he smiled, albeit tiredly.

"Sweet. Thanks, man."

"I'm not encouraging your disgusting habit, but it's for your trouble," Mello replied deftly. He didn't miss Matt's tired eye-roll. "Goodnight, Matt."

"Yeah, yeah. Night. See you around."

They parted ways underneath the overpass, Mello walking farther down towards his motorcycle. It must have rained sometime the night before — a rare sight in California, but the road was wet where there was no coverage, and a small puddle of rainwater had collected on Mello's seat. He wiped it off with his glove, swinging his leg over his bike, just as he watched Matt peel out of the row of cars and speed past him towards the interstate far above the speed limit.

So that was it. It was for the best that he and Matt fall out of contact, never see one another again.

Mello waited until Matt was just a dot in the desert horizon. And then he revved his engine, and sped back in the early dawn.


	7. Chapter 7

Rod and Mello were safely inside his office — a cold and empty war bunker, still thrumming with industrial pipes, haphazardly turned lush living space through Rod's ornate furniture — and Mello locked the door behind him with a click, leaning against it bodily. Rod was already by his wet bar, pouring two Jacks into rocks glasses. The heavy door muffled the sound outside, casting a calm silence over them.

Rod spoke up first. "That was fuckin' crazy."

"It sure as shit was," Mello responded. "We have a god on our side."

A bug-eyed, infant-mouthed god of death, with skin like wrapping paper and robes made of otherworldly velvet. The notebook belonged to it, it claimed.

God truly did have a sick sense of humor. He had even named it Sidoh.

"Jesus, man…" Rod replaced the Jack Daniels in his display case of whiskey bottles, and then brought the two glasses to his desk, sitting down in his chair. Mello hadn't moved, still. His mind was racing. "What you gonna do about it, Boss?"

With the most unappealing rule — the thirteen-day contract — gone from the notebook, Mello's thoughts were racing. It meant that the original Kira had the foresight to change the rules in order to discourage other writers. It also meant that the original Kira intended for the notebook to be passed around, creating a hierarchy within the Death Note's writers.

It had worked. For the mafia, the competition between the men would ramp up to an all-time high. To have a _god _on their side as well made the offer seem all the more enticing.

His men, who were at best obstructions to his final goal before, had suddenly become very serious threats.

"We've got to be more careful from now on," Mello began, and then lifted himself off the door finally, walking over to deposit the notebook onto Rod's desk. He splayed his hand out on the cover as he spoke. "That means no one touches the notebook aside from us."

Rod stared up at him. "You worried too, huh?"

"It's a contractless kill, Rod. Who wouldn't be tempted?"

"Yeah." Rod took a sip of his whiskey, the ice tinkling in the glass. "Ain't a goddamned toy, that's for sure. You want a drink?"

"No, thanks." Mello began to pace. He couldn't stay still. There was a solid threat all around him now, and he felt almost as if he would be caught in its trap if he didn't stop moving. "We also need stricter rules regarding the use of the notebook. Stricter hours. Tighter locks. More surveillance."

Rod brought his glass to his forehead. "Fucking hell."

"We need to be vigilant, Rod. What happens when it gets into the wrong hands? If sensitive information gets leaked?"

He hadn't named any names, but Rod had detected the meaning behind his words quickly enough.

"You mean Neylon?" Rod preferred to use Snydar's alias, although Mello usually forwent it. He shook his head and set the glass back down, his eyes following Mello around the room closely. "If he even breathes a letter of your name, I'll put a fuckin' bullet between his eyes. The traditional way."

Mello wasn't sure if Snydar had it in him to plot anything extreme, because there wasn't very much he could do even if he had the blind power to kill anybody he pleased. Something else lurked at the back of his mind that posed a much more viable threat: if Kira were to get his hands on Snydar, then that would mean that he would not only be manipulating someone inside his mob, but manipulating someone who knew Mello's full name and face as well.

To have Kira be able to take his real name through the notebook's control was a harrowing thought.

"I trust you to put Snydar back in his place," Mello said, pausing briefly. "But there's a possibility our men have already been taken control of by Kira, or at least have had some form of contact with him. If the notebook is meant to be passed around, then Kira may contact our man in the future too. So watch out for any signs of potential influence."

"What does that look like?"

"I don't know, either. That's the issue." Mello stopped his pacing, and set his foot on the chair in front of him like he was trying to ground the lightning bolt shooting through his nerves. "But for now, we'll have to be extra attentive about the entry and exit points. Make sure no one gets in or out without written permission, aside from you and I."

Rod pulled the notebook into his lap and then tucked it into his waistband, where he normally stashed his gun. "Got it, Boss."

Mello snapped off a piece of his chocolate with ferocity, looking over at Rod finally. He looked apprehensive, distraught; but Mello found it difficult to believe that Rod was really so upset over the fake rules. He benefited from not being contractually obligated to write in the notebook as well, after all.

Was it a front? Rod had been the one who'd originally tipped the scales when he killed Mac Alistair; he didn't care at all about Mello's goal to defeat Kira, either, when he deemed it as a threat to his own standing. Rod must be scheming to keep the notebook's power within his own hands — and Mello hesitated to place his full trust in him, either.

"I'm going to take some time off," Mello said, breaking the silence. "Keep the notebook safe. With you, at all times."

Rod nodded slowly. "Got it, Boss," he repeated.

This was the end of meeting. The first, Mello predicted, of many to come.

* * *

Mello had received a call the next morning from Rod, telling him to get to the base right away. This was odd — Mello usually dropped in and left whenever he saw fit, and hardly anybody was there this early in the morning, which left the possibility of a last-minute meeting quite low. The urgency in Rod's voice had raised another suspicion: something was amiss, and Mello was afraid it had to do with the notebook.

When he'd arrived at the base, he found Eddie sitting in the chair in the main lounge by the collection of surveillance screens, his hands hogtied with electrical wire. Rashual was there, as was Rod — both of them standing by the corner, watching Mello as he entered.

The rest of the men were missing.

"What's going on?" Mello demanded. Eddie's head was down, his thick, curly head of hair replacing the rest of his face — and Rod's gun was out, but on the table. A threat.

Rod wasn't in a suit for a rare change, instead in something that felt much more relaxed, which meant that he hadn't had time to change before coming into the base this morning. He had his arms crossed as he stepped around the chair, falling into his role of the villian with considerable ease.

"Last night, we had a little bit of a situation," he began, in the clear voice he used to make his speeches. He kicked the leg of the chair that Eddie sat on, his face hardening. "Didn't we, Eddie?"

Eddie refused to look up.

"Eddie here," Rod continued, bending over to pull a fistful of Eddie's hair, exposing his bruised face, "decided to try and pick the lock and steal the notebook yesterday. Rashual caught him. What'd you think would fucking happen, Eddie, huh? What'd you think would happen when we caught you? You fucking useless cunt."

Mello crossed his arms, a tepid sense of disappointment washing over him. For this to happen this soon meant that the men were even more impatient than he'd thought.

Eddie cracked open an eye at him, his face a pathetic wrinkle of remorse. In the bright white glow of the surveillance footage, Mello could see a cut that sliced his cheek, his eye swollen and pink. Mello stared back, impassive, and Eddie decided that this was a merciful enough expression to speak. "I just wanted to to see what it was like," he said, "I didn't wanna use it—"

Rod caught him by the jaw with his rings, knocking the chair off balance for a short minute. "Shut the fuck up," he demanded, brushing his knuckles off with his other hand, and then looked up, smiling smoothly. "What do we do about him, Boss?"

Mello lifted his head. He would buy his time. Three pairs of eyes trained on his word, and Mello let his eyes settle on Eddie with something less menacing than contempt.

He'd known one of the goons would fuck up, and Eddie just happened to be the weakest link.

"Lock him up," Mello commanded finally, jerking his head towards the cellar doors behind him. "Until I figure out what I want to do with this motherfucker."

Eddie's swollen eyes crinkled with despair. Rod forced him to stand on his shaking legs, and then Rashual led him down the staircase, hands behind his back like a prisoner.

* * *

As soon as the rest of the men left the base that night, Mello called for another private meeting in Rod's office.

There was a noticeable absence as only ten men were present today, but nobody dared to ask any questions, and neither Rod nor Mello deemed it necessary to offer up any answers.

As soon as the drinks were out on the table and the lamp on the desk was switched on, they were ready to begin. Mello leaned against the cedarwood desk, his leg dangling from the side as he dropped the notebook under the lamp shade.

"I wanna talk about the ten mil," Rod began, tucking the notebook into his back as he cut all the niceties. He was never one for beating around the bush. "From Hoope."

Mello nodded once, taking a bite from his chocolate bar. "Shoot."

Rod made himself comfortable and leaned back in his chair, taking a matchbox from his desk to light the thick cigar between his fingers. He often liked to enjoy one at the end of the night — a treat to himself of sorts, he would say.

This time, though, he took his damned time, puffing it, the cloying scent filling the room like burning oak. Mello turned away, trying to hold back a cough.

With the cigar wedged between his teeth, he continued, his words round and hard as he spoke around the tobacco. "I know we said we were gonna split it 50/50 between us but, y'know what, I think we should do 55/45. It won't change much, but—"

"Rod," Mello cut in, icy. "That's $500,000."

"Yeah."

"Why the fuck would you need another 500k?"

Rod shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Y'know, Boss, with the weapons you want for the new base, I just don't think five mil is gonna cut it."

Mello stared at him, daring him to say it again. He was lenient when it came to Rod, but he was never a pushover. "Absolutely not."

Rod looked away, his lips twitching into a snarl, but backed down quickly enough. "Alright, man."

"Besides," Mello continued, sanding down the edges of his tone. He knew Rod was susceptible to flattery, and liked working under the false pretense that they were on good terms. "You have the notebook, remember? You've got full access now that Snydar is just the owner on paper. I'm sure you can pull a few favors without having to use an extra 500k. Spend smart, Rod."

Rod nodded, mumbling his catchphrase: "Got it, Boss." He changed gears, easing them away from the disagreement. "You know what you wanna do about Eddie yet?"

"Yeah. We're going to see how it looks like to be controlled by the notebook."

Now Rod grinned, baring his sharp teeth into something vaguely predatory. Rod was a simple man — and Mello knew him well enough at this stage to know how to placate him. "That's what I'm talkin' about."

"You have any ideas?"

"Yeah. Let's kill him for November 16th. 23 days after today."

Mello wasn't surprised that Rod had seemingly prepared for this situation. Hell, Rod loved to exercise the limits to the Death Note — to have express permission to do so was his idea of a good tradeoff. Mello let him run his mouth, first, just to stay on his good side, and Rod continued with previously unseen vitality. The man loved to talk.

"We should be able to control him completely. Write down 'Edwardo Garcia does everything Mello and Rod tell him to do.' We control him through word."

The Don beamed, but Mello knew that this would never work. Rod had overlooked some of the most salient rules in the notebook just to please his own sense of control.

Not that Mello had expected anything more, of course.

"The notebook doesn't accept aliases, and we can't put our real names in there, or else we'll end up being killed." Mello paused to bite his chocolate, rewording his sentence carefully, before continuing. "According to the rules, if the notebook thinks it impossible, then Eddie would just die of a heart attack. He'd be rendered useless for our purposes as a result."

Rod's grin slipped, just slightly, but he nodded understandingly, tapping his cigar against his glass ashtray. "Shit, yeah. Forgot about those," he said, pensive. "Then what you thinking, Boss?"

Now it was Mello's turn. He allowed himself to smirk. "I want to keep him locked up for three days, but I want to be able to watch him through the cameras. For the second day, I want to write a full schedule of things for him to do. He'll die of a heart attack at the end of the three days."

"Just the second day?"

"I want to see how mind control looks like when it isn't being invoked." Mello smiled daringly. "How it looks dormant."

Rod frowned, cogs turning visibly in his brain. "A full itinerary?"

"Exactly." Mello pulled out a draft that he'd written in the evening from his jacket pocket and slid it across the desk for Rod to read. "A schedule, down to the hour."

Rod held it up, the paper turning translucent against the lamp's light, and squinted at Mello's cursive. He fell silent, mouthing the words as he read them, cigar smoke falling from his lips as he did so. The room was quiet, save for the rumbling of the factory's pipes as they creaked and bellowed all around them. Mello'd gotten so used to the sound that it was practically white noise by now.

Rod grinned as he finished, putting down the piece of paper. When he looked up at Mello, the tiny little orange dots of the lamp glowed in his dark eyes. They shone with something sadistic, vicious and awful.

Mello knew he was back on his good side.

"Jesus Christ," Rod murmured, and then his lips curled up into a grin around the sacrilege. "Goddamn."

"This is a full oral and written exam, Rod," Mello responded. "And I want to see just how much Eddie passes."

Rod grinned at him nastily. "Alright. You sick fuck."


	8. Chapter 8

Mello had stayed at the base, watching the cellar feed from his personal room in the bedroom headquarters. He had slept in short half-hour increments, waking up routinely to see if Eddie had made any significant movements outside of the scheduled actions.

He hadn't. He slept in the night, paced in the day, and acted normally whenever the powers were not actively being channelled.

The Death Note performed like clockwork. At the atomic second, the notebook had forced Eddie out of the room to find a gun to clean, and even leading Eddie to scour his cellar space for writing utensils to complete his letter-writing and drawing tasks. It seemed to operate on a combination of Eddie's memories, awareness, knowledge and capabilities to carry out its duties, catering each demand uniquely to its victim based on their minds and personalities.

It was absolutely disturbing.

Eddie had passed Mello's exam with flying colors. Mello had come to the conclusion that the Death Note could make every action situationally possible.

Now, he had to see if the victims were consciously aware of its control.

It was just past nine o'clock in the morning, and Mello left his room to head to the cellar. As he descended the metal staircase, the sound of his heels awoke Eddie from his sleep on the makeshift bed.

They hadn't physically restrained him. Mello was wary of it rendering all of the action-based tasks impossible to perform, although Mello suspected that the notebook would have found a way to encourage Eddie to unfasten his ties regardless.

When Mello reached the middle of the cellar, he reached for the hanging light, tugging the pull chain that dangled from the low ceilings. Then he stood — legs apart, arms crossed, expression hard, just a few feet in front of him. "Get up."

Eddie arose gingerly. "Yes, sir."

"Sit down here." He grabbed a metal chair that sat just beside the staircase, and used his foot to nudge it towards the bedframe, its legs screeching over the floor. "In that chair."

Eddie stirred and climbed into the chair, his actions hesitant and afraid. Mello didn't want to believe that the notebook was capable of orchestrating emotions as complex as the ones that were flickering over Eddie's face.

"What's your name?" Mello asked, tilting his head up to stare him down.

Suddenly, the emotions emptied from Eddie's features, draining from his eyes like sand falling from an hourglass. He was blank — a puppet.

"I have no name, for I am Kira's slave," he intoned, his voice was hollow and cold. Exactly as was said in the script. Then, as suddenly as it had drained away, the fear poured back in, like a radio losing frequency and tuning into fuzzy grey static in a long tunnel. Mello had to suppress a shiver that racked his spine.

"What did you just say?"

"I didn't say anything," Eddie responded, acutely stressed. "Boss, please. I'm sorry. I can make things better."

Short term memory loss. Mello ignored his words, turning to take calculated steps towards a folded piece of paper that sat on the floor beside the metal cabinet. He'd seen Eddie dump it there yesterday afternoon after he was finished with it, and then proceed to never look at it again.

"What is this?" Mello asked, icily, the paper limp between his fingers.

"I don't know."

He unfolded it. It contained a personal letter, addressed to his mother, written in Spanish — underneath, the words DONA EIS REQUIEM had been scribbled in Eddie's handwriting, a cross beside the words. "A letter?" he asked, his voice lowering threateningly.

"I don't know."

Mello stepped towards him and straightened the paper forcefully, almost ripping it in the process with his contention. "This is your handwriting, Eddie. Why the fuck are you writing letters?"

Eddie blinked blearily, and then focused his vision under the light as if seeing it for the first time. "I…" he began, but drifted off.

Mello shoved it less than an inch from his nose. "Read it, Eddie. Isn't that your name?"

A silence as he scanned. And then, as if deciding that lying was unconducive to making the situation better, Eddie exhaled shakily. "It is. But I don't remember writing it."

The victims of the notebook were unaware of their actions while under its influence. Dimly, Mello registered how horrible a fate that was to suffer.

"You don't remember?" Mello sneered. "Do you expect me to fall for that?"

"I really don't remember, Boss," Eddie murmured. "I'm sorry."

"And what is this? Dona Eis Requiem?" He pointed his finger to the scribbled lyric at the bottom of the letter. "What the fuck does that mean?"

Eddie shook his head, dropping his gaze to his feet. "I don't know."

So victims could write things that they did not understand or know themselves. Mello scoffed, crumpling the note in his fist and turning away. He would examine the contents of the letter later — sliding it into his coat pocket when he knew that Eddie couldn't see from behind him.

There was another sheet of paper that Eddie had drawn on, and he scanned the room for it now. He spotted it as he glanced towards the cabinet, its dirty color blending into the cement floor. It was the drawing that Mello had commissioned through the Death Note.

"And what's this? Another letter?" he demanded, picking it from the floor to flip it around. A poor sketch: a barely-decipherable face with a crude bob.

But Mello realized that this meant that the notebook could pull from its victim's knowledge even if it was unspecified in the writing itself. In other words, the writer of the notebook could potentially find out information that they had not known to begin with, as long as it was information that the victim had known.

Mello whirled around, dousing his fury with kerosene, watching it burst into flames. The notebook was too powerful to be tampered with. It was all-seeing and all-knowing when even its users were not. "What the fuck is this?"

"What—"

Wilder. "Why the fuck did you draw me, Eddie?"

"I didn't—"

Mello flared into a tamed wildfire, just on the edge of spilling into chaos. "Are you trying to get me killed, Eddie? Are you a fucking rat?"

Eddie shook his head vehemently, putting up his hands in defense. The cuffs of his dress shirt had been undone from earlier in the morning, and they slipped down his forearms to show light red lines against his skin. There they were: fresh cuts. Mello had seen him slash his arms with a knife he'd planted in the cabinet earlier — and it was appalling, though not unexpected, that the notebook could even control the act of its victims self-mutilating.

"What's on your wrists?" Mello asked, his eyes narrowed. He sharpened the wildfire into something deadlier, more focused; something that scorched rather than engulfed. "Cuts?"

"What?"

Mello didn't wait for a response, gripping Eddie's forearms forcefully. The cuts had scabbed. He wanted to see how Eddie reacted to them in real time, and glanced towards his swollen face.

He was shocked, incoherent. "No, no—"

"Suicide?" Mello mocked, shoving him off.

"I didn't—"

Mello didn't wait for him to finish, drawing his gun just to shut him up. Eddie's words died on his lips, though his pleas were irrelevant, anyway — Mello had found out all he needed to know.

"So you want to die." He turned the safety off, pointing it at Eddie's head. "Let me help, you fucking rat."

Mello kept it trained at his head, his grip unwavering, simmering in Eddie's fear as it flooded the room. He felt himself treading in it — deep inside the way Eddie quivered in fright, his breaths coming in heavy pants that he tried desperately to control. For a second, Mello remembered an older face looking at him with a similar fear. The splatter on the walls, just a second of hesitation later.

In the cold darkness of the cellar now, he was sorely tempted to pull the trigger, just to see what would happen if he were to defy the Death Note's rules. Perhaps Eddie would survive in a vegetative state before dying of a heart attack tomorrow night. It would be another viable experiment to see how he fared against supernatural forces.

But Mello recalled the way ordinary household bleach failed to erase blood, paper towels painting the crimson into wide arcs and circles during the cleanup. The way the cement of the cellar would stain, as well as the stench.

It was much easier to dispose of all evidence of an intact corpse.

The impulse passed, and Mello rounded behind him, gun still prone, pulling electrical wire from his jacket pocket. Eddie hadn't dared to move.

"Hands behind your back," Mello said, thawing his voice to a chill, the wick burning out in his chest like it had been doused. Eddie followed without resistance, and Mello replaced his gun, tying Eddie's thick wrists together easily, tight enough to cut off bloodflow. "If I find you trying to get out, I blow your fucking head off."

Eddie nodded sharply, and Mello stood, walking back before him to get a final look. The man was still lucid, a frightened cocktail of emotions on his face — and at this point of the mafia's and the notebook's treatment, death might have truly been preferable.

Mello tugged at the hanging cord of the light, shrouding him in darkness. As he ascended the stairs back towards the main lounge, he had to fight the absolute dread that crawled up his veins like coiling serpents.

There was absolutely no way to gauge the notebook's influence unless Mello were to witness it in person while it was at play. Mello could never know with full confidence whether or not any of his men were under its control, since the men themselves wouldn't even keep the memories of its hypnosis — and with their names and faces floating on the FBI's and SPK's databases, it was no longer a matter of if Kira decided to get to him through one of his men, but when.

It left little more than to rely solely on surveillance, just to find out the exact moment that the manipulation happened. But Mello knew, too, that he couldn't prevent all of his men from leaving the base — it was one thing to distrust his men, but another to cage them in like lab rats. Even if he were to determine that the men had been controlled through Kira's Death Note, Mello had no room to move. He had relied almost entirely on the mafia's power until this point, but with the gang's strata crumbling beneath him, it was proving to be less and less valid a form of protection.

The notebook had passed with a perfect score. There was absolutely nothing the notebook couldn't control. Nothing.

* * *

"Snydar, names."

"Monitor one: John Morton. Monitor two: Greg Randalph. Monitor seven: right, Jebb Bell; left, Roy Sanders."

They watched as Sidoh tore off the helmets of all the men on their tiny television screens in their Surveillance Room upstairs, Rod dutifully writing the names down as Snydar read them aloud. Mello snapped off a piece of chocolate as he watched as the men fell in forty second increments — writhing on the ground until they went still, until all had collapsed but one.

It was a raid, not even a full day after Eddie's experiment had ended. Rod's phone was sitting on the table, speakerphone mode on with Pedoro, and Mello pushed himself off the couch with an elbow. "Take one of the men, and leave out Garage B."

Mello wasn't yet sure by whom the raid was, or for what reason it was even happening, but he didn't have time to think now. He had to move.

"We're going through Garage C. Rashual's car," Mello continued, looking away from the bodies laying on the ground of the entrance of the compound, Sidoh gliding past as it slipped through their corpses, moving off-screen. "Rod, you get Eddie from the cellar. He's coming with us."

"And me, Boss?" Snydar asked. He thought he mattered after his eyes gained new value.

Mello ignored him, throwing his jacket over himself, snatching another chocolate bar from the glass coffee table in front of him. They had less than five minutes before the cars would leave, and it took roughly two to get down to the docks. Rod slid the notebook towards Mello, who shoved it into his waistband beside his gun.

Mello moved briskly into the hallway, his boots clanging on the stairs as he descended to the loading docks. A minute and fifty seconds, his mental clock counted. They needed to leave before the unit sent for backup, or called for a new fleet; they had to secure the notebook, and transport it safely to the new base.

Snydar followed behind him like a weak shadow. When they reached the ground floor, Mello glanced at the parking mirror hanging above the car briefly without turning around. Snydar looked ghastly behind him, in its convex contours — a spectre from a Munch painting.

Mello ripped open the door of the Hummer and slid into the back.

One minute left.

Rod came forty-three seconds later, Eddie in tow, electrical wire still fastened around his wrists. He threw him into the trunk, and then Mello heard him a muffled shout at Snydar from outside the car. Two doors opened; Snydar in the passenger seat, and Rod, the car dipping with his weight as he dropped in, vaguely out of breath, the phone still held in his fingers.

Mello peered back at the trunk. Rod grinned at his reaction, and then said, "Ready, Boss."

They had hit the five minute mark. Mello looked back to the front, where Rashual sat, waiting, and then he nodded once. "Drive."

They peeled out of the compound, followed by the fleet of cars that joined them with bright beams of trailing headlights. They had all waited for them to leave first — and now, as they merged onto the road towards their new base, the other cars formed a protective barrier around them, sandwiching them into the middle lane.

They were out. No helicopters to chase them, nor police cars — it was a secret mission of just one small commando unit, rather than a national bust with fleets. "All clear," Pedoro's voice chirped from the phone. "Three other cars are on their way to the base."

"And the hostage?"

"He's here. We'll take him in for questioning."

Mello nodded to himself, turning to look out the tinted windows at the water towers and factory mills that sped by, chocolate still shoved into his mouth as if the sugar could calm the adrenaline from spiking out of his skin. There were no other cars in sight except for Rod's Hummers; the raid had been minuscule, but their escape had been successful.

Sidoh was to follow them to the new base. It was most likely above them at the current moment, flapping about like a guardian pelican. It had turned out to be invaluable, after all — the raiders had not expected there to be an invisible, supernatural being on their side to assist them, and that ended up costing the lives of over thirty men.

Mello had expected this raid since the day the Death Note landed in their hands, which was why their escape had already been fully prepared. But something was off. The raid consisted of a commando unit of Middle Eastern men — they shouted to one another in Arabic as Sidoh began to pull their helmets off, radioing their superiors in accented English, which meant that they were most likely not the SPK or the FBI, but an international force with ties to military.

An organization like that pointed to the US government, which meant that the raid was sanctioned by the President himself.

Mello narrowed his eyes at the roads beyond them. It must have been Hoope. He wouldn't have been able to do this alone, surely — he had no will when Mello had threatened him the first time, and he could have never attempted something like this on his own accord. The SPK wouldn't have raided them since they were watching the wrong bases to begin with, and the FBI were not any closer to finding their previous location, either.

Before Mello finished his thought, Pedoro spoke up from the phone, his voice shaken. "Boss, we failed. The man committed suicide before he could tell us whose orders he was operating on. It seemed like he had cyanide hidden in his tooth."

"Fuck," Rod swore.

Suicide again. It had happened before, during their first trade for the notebook when they had kidnapped Director Takimura, before shifting over to Sayu Yagami, the Deputy Leader's daughter — a suicide through Kira's jurisdiction as he hanged himself with his necktie. A death that the NPA had not realized was performed through the notebook.

Mello looked over, a dull sense of nausea ricocheting in the hollows of his skull as the fog around the truth cleared, and he began to see the full picture. "Call the President."

"Yeah, Boss." The sound of the beeps of the cellphone, and then a dial tone that rang on with no conclusion. Mello was expecting as much: if the mission was unsuccessful, then Hoope had little choice. The commando unit was dead — and to Hoope, America was next.

"No answer," Rod stated, frustration in his tone. The dial tone kept ringing in the oppressive environment in the car, like a goddamned concerto over the sound of the engine. "He ain't answering, Boss."

Mello snapped off a piece of the chocolate, tight shocks running through his skin, his voice hollow in his ears. "He's not going to answer. His raid failed. He feared becoming a puppet and killed himself before we made him press the button."

Rashual spoke up from the driver's seat. "I'm sure it isn't that, he just isn't answering the phone—"

"No, man, Mello might be right," Rod replied, raising his voice over the dial tone. "Like the Director. He killed himself."

The Hummer hit a pothole, and there was a thump in the trunk. The dial tone rung loudly like a fire engine, and Mello had to hold firmly onto his facade of control. "Hang up."

Rod flipped the cellphone shut.

Hoope had been persuaded by someone who knew where their base was, who'd given him the confidence to perform such a feat. Yet it couldn't have been Kira — Hoope wouldn't have worked with Kira, at least not willingly. He was anti-Kira, after all.

It must have been the fake L.

But how could L have known exactly where they were located, despite the top organizations in the world failing to do so? And how could he have been able to achieve such an impossible feat if he had made hardly any progress on the Kira case prior to Mello's graduation into the main field to begin with?

Mello had known, from the Takimura incident, that Kira had access to the information that the NPA had; he had been able to find out about the kidnapping before it was even broadcasted, and killed Takimura almost immediately after his discovery. At the time, Mello had assumed that it was because the NPA had low cybersecurity, and Kira was adept in hacking secured files.

But now he realized that information could have been leaking both ways. Kira must have known where the men were, and then worked through the NPA to try and get the notebook back. Perhaps they were working together, on the same side. The puzzle piece clicked into place, and Mello felt the staccato of his heart so violently that he feared a heart attack had come on early, and that it was all over.

It passed without incident. Mello clutched at his chocolate bar so tightly that the aluminum foil crinkled, the only sound in the car.

There was no other way that the NPA could have narrowed their search down when not even Near nor the FBI had managed to find out where they were. Kira had beat him at his own game.

He'd waited too long for the mafia to collapse in on itself first, under the guileless belief that his men becoming controlled was a mere possibility rather than an inevitable threat. Kira had had his hands inside, puppeteering them from the start, and then he'd used the government as a shield to overpower them when he made his move on the board.

It was too late. There was already a rat in the base — a guillotine over his head, waiting for the execution date that none of them knew.

Mello was losing. The dial tone was the song of his defeat.

* * *

Less than twenty minutes later, they rolled into the underground garage of the new base.

The last time Mello had been at the mansion, it was with Matt. He hadn't allowed him to keep a copy of the system he'd rigged though, for obvious reasons, and they were functionally out of contact — so his thoughts didn't linger on Matt for long.

There was a rat in their midst.

It was a goddamned guessing game as to who it was, but there was no other way the raid could have been possible otherwise; the NPA had next to no information about them, and the SPK and FBI were looking at the wrong clues. By using Eddie, he had tried to think like Kira, and seen how easily the Death Note had played into the rules of reality, how unflinchingly simple it had been to manipulate it to give him exactly the information he needed in order to meld the situation to his will.

Now Mello had to _see _like Kira. See the men through their controllability. If he were Kira, which of these men looked like the perfect person to puppeteer?

"Boss," Rod said with a wide grin, spreading his arms out as he glided into the lounge. "This is a gorgeous place."

Mello glanced at Rod. It seemed obvious for Kira to take him, since he was offered the most freedom in and out of the mob, and he had impressive power within California. Pavone had feared him, too, in the last days of his life.

But Kira wouldn't have picked someone who stood out like a sore thumb, especially since standing out was what Rod enjoyed doing the most. Mello would have scoped Rod out in a second if he were the werewolf in their gang.

"We have Barker to thank for that," Mello replied, reclining in his leather settee.

Rod leaned closer towards the Virgin Mary statues. "How long did it take for you to set this whole thing up?"

"A week or so."

"Feels like home already." Rod grinned, baring his sharklike teeth, and breezed past the china shelf to the dining table in the kitchen, disappearing around the corner. The mansion was far smaller than the brutalist maze that had been their past compound — it had dozens of rooms and multiple storeys, but it felt starkly different from the wide array of hallways and towering storage areas they had in the factory before, even at its more-than-accommodating size for ten and one hostage.

And its size was perfect for surveillance, at least. There could hardly be any blind spots when the rooms themselves were so modest.

Mello glanced up at the carriage clock that sat at the mantel. The camera offered the most unobstructed view of their main lounge — and Snydar was standing just where Matt had been sitting, his posture hunched, his hands folded behind his back, perfectly captured on footage.

He was looking at something. The fireplace, the grate removed, resting against the brick. It wasn't burning, but logs sat in the chimney already, stacked and arranged neatly, awaiting the touch of ignition.

Snydar had little worth outside of his position as the notebook's holder and writer. From what Sidoh had told them, the person in possession of the Eyes could see any owners of the notebook: they lacked a lifeline. Kira clearly had the Eyes, which must have made Snydar stand out in the first place.

It seemed unlikely for Kira to zero in on an obvious target like that, though. Snydar was almost _too _easy — but, unsettlingly enough, he also knew Mello's name, which was a clear advantage of any of the other men.

Mello sneered inwardly, looking away. If only he'd tested the notebook's powers on Snydar first. The thirteen-day-rule had given Mello the false promise that Snydar would die, removing him as a threat when he had been more than dangerous enough of a wildcard.

Snydar meandered towards the stairwell and ascended, his light footsteps hardly making a noise against the wooden boards, and Mello was alone to finally inhale before he rose from the settee. The notebook stuck against his back uncomfortably as he stepped past the large zebra-print couches — a nod to Rod's favorite design — and headed towards the chimney. He pulled out the small matchbox he'd seen stashed on the mantel from behind the Virgin Mary. The action of lighting fireplaces was familiar. He'd done it all the time as a child, in the dead of winter in snowy Lomonosov.

The mechanics of striking the match against the box and watching the tiny flame expel from the stick were second nature. He crouched, meditatively touching the flame to the corners of the kindling before tossing the light into the fireplace. A flame burst, and he replaced the grate just in time to hear boisterous laughter explode from the bedroom quarters, so loud that it almost startled him.

Mello was surprised at how much the men filled out the house: it felt positively changed, their low voices reverberating from off the white wallpaper, echoing until every corner felt lived in.

It was suffocating.

Mello rose to the switch to turn the lights off. He cast a darkness over the living room, the sun seeping in through just the outline of the window, blocked by the planks against the glass. The fire alone illuminated the base — made it seem just slightly bigger. The noxious gas smell faded, replaced with the warm notes of crackling pine wood. The cameras had infrared and thermal, so he knew he lost nothing from fiddling with the atmosphere of the room until he felt more at ease.

Regardless of whoever the rat was, Mello needed ample proof so that he could stop any of the men from leaving the base any further. If he could find surveillance footage of them acting suspiciously, then he could persuade Rod into being more controlling over their lackeys' movements, minimizing their threat level considerably once they became unable to move in and out of the camera's gaze.

Eddie was due to die by the end of tomorrow night. Mello had to find out who their Judas was as soon as possible, and stop him from plunging them deeper into Kira's hands.

Mello had to win. It wasn't a choice — the alternative was death.


	9. Chapter 9

The sun was rising and dusklight was streaming in between the cracks of his blinds. Matt rolled over, and realized he hadn't eaten in days. The drugs took the edge off, and his shitty eating habits took care of the rest — but when he woke up, his stomach growled before he even gained full consciousness.

He was still somewhat doped, miraculously; somewhere in that gummy medium of euphoria where misery wasn't breathing down his neck for once. He scooped his phone from off the hardwood floor and checked the time. It was nearly twelve hours since he was last awake, and Matt must have been really tired, because he rarely slept _that _long and still managed to keep the shallow, shimmering waters of a high in his system.

Or it must have been his use of Percs when he was doing the wiring. That was hard — running to the bathroom every four hours to pop an oxy just to keep the withdrawals from getting too personal. There were close calls, sure, but anyway, Matt came home and shot up good and proper, and the longtimenosee high was clean enough to keep him sailing into the next morning.

Yeah, a whole day. Maybe he should do it more sometime. Save on his stash and whatnot.

He was sitting up on his mattress, in nothing but boxers and a pair of socks again because any fabric made him itch when he was high but he hated being naked from the waist down. He reached over to his box of cigs that he kept at his bedside table, and realized he was out.

Fuck. That was his last pack, too. He sighed, rubbing his eyes, and grabbed his clothes strewn around the room, pulling his big boy pants back on so that he could go down to the 7-11 and buy some necessities. He hadn't washed his clothes in eons, especially not his favorite uniform of stripes-and-jeans, but it wasn't like he was planning on getting too close to anybody today, so he could skip on the laundry.

Still groggy, he padded to the bathroom, turning on the flickering fluorescent light with the dead fly that had moved in there with him when he'd bought the place. Pissed. Flushed. Brushed his teeth. Spat. Walked back out to the living room, where he stepped over wires and cables and gaming consoles spread out on the floor like the arteries of his monster of a flat, towards the buzzing of the semi-cold fridge. Opened it. Expired milk and condiments and a whole bowl of half-eaten cereal with the spoon still intact and one taco that was definitely not a recent memory. Closed the fridge again, padded towards the cupboards. No cup noodles left.

One last balloon.

That _really _meant he had to go outside today.

He was on the streets beneath his complex before he even realized it, his favorite Goodwill fur vest zipped up to his chin, his goggles firmly over his eyes casting the whole world in an orangey hue. It was sometime too late in the night or too early in the morning — the sky was a nice periwinkle or lavender, somewhere between blue and purple, and the lights of the city were still deciding whether they wanted to be on or off. Drunks and druggies mulled about, fighting, screaming, crying, waiting for something, anything, to get them through the day.

It was one of those mornings where things felt quiet and understanding. Sometimes, the Earth swallowed Matt whole and spat him back up the day after — but maybe it was because he'd gotten enough sleep, or there was the perfect amount of opioid analgesics that had passed through his BBB, or the planets and stars had aligned just the right way. Today just felt okay.

These days, home was in the palm trees, the wide open roads, the graffiti-littered walls of Koreatown. Hangul wrapped around the signs on every storefront, and anti-Kira graffiti took the rest in the alleyways in between. As unacquainted as Matt had carefully tried to be about Kira in the New Age, there were things that Matt just had to notice: the sprawling billboards that represented Kira as a tall buff blonde dude and its vandalized, defaced messages the day after they went up, the churches that had LED signs that aired Pro-Kira messages to non-believers, and the crudely written tags on the grimy walls that said FUCK KIRA and KIRA SUCKS DICK.

He was at his friendly neighborhood 7-11, pointing to the shelves behind the Indian kid who was always there to ring up his cigs at weird hours. Matt threw in a few taquitos, too, from behind the toasty light of the ready-to-eat section. Yes, five. Yes, a bag please. He took everything, spared some change for the homeless man sitting beside the door, and then was faced with a decision as he loitered around the front window:

Cigarette or taquito?

It was an easy one. He fished out the pack, ripping open the plastic, and then fidgeted with the foil, tearing and crumpling it back into the bag. When he got the cigarette in his mouth, he realized he forgot his Zippo back at his place, and then glanced back to the homeless man he'd just given change to.

"… A light?" Matt asked, smiling sheepishly.

The man nodded, reached his fumbling hand out from the swathes of his crusty blanket and gave him a light. "Cool goggles," the man added with a toothless grin, and Matt gave him some more bills.

He was smoking now, staring up at the brightening sky as the puke-yellow color of the glowing sign above him made the asphalt look green. The weather was nice today — thin, wispy clouds. Sunny. Not too cold, even in October, but it wasn't like there were seasons in LA. He decided to do a little shopping spree down at the Skid later, so he gave his dealer a ring on his Cali burner: a nice red Krzr. Default background.

"Andre," he greeted over the phone. "What's up?"

"It's 7 in the morning, gringo."

"You're up, aren't you?" Matt's cigarette burnt out at the filter, and he flicked it into the distance. "You never sleep, man."

Andre never cared much for banter. "How much?"

"A bundle."

"Dunno if I got that much. Give me ten minutes," Andre replied. "And I'll call you back."

Matt hung up, pleased with himself, and then took out the taquitos. This was his first proper meal in a while, and he wolfed them down quickly. His eyes were way bigger than his out-of-practice stomach, though, and now he was too full to finish the last one, so he gave it to the dude sitting outside the 7-11 again. And then he was back on the streets, feeling full and warm and cozy, though he could feel the warm started to cool down and the cozy start to pull away now that he had food for his system to work on. Just a little bit.

Still okay, though.

Ten minutes in plug time meant something closer to sixty, so he took his sweet time getting back to the garage, dropped off his shit at his apartment, restocked the packs in his glove compartment, and he was on his way to Andre's apartment near the Skid in his Camaro. He would get there earlier, just so he could head up and bounce when he got his shit ready for him. Compared to the Ecuadorians, Andre wasn't too bad — never ripped him off, at least.

He was stuck in early morning traffic, listening to the relaxing sounds of honking and swearing, the sun beating down on his windshield, but he still got there early. He parked on a corner near Gladys Park just a few blocks away from Andre's location. Throngs of kids were on their way to school, their big backpacks in tow, groups of fours and fives walking together from their neighborhoods, laughing and talking over each other the way kids do. Matt watched them briefly, but as a few kids turned back to look at him and started to point, he realized how fucking sketchy he looked with his tinted windows and goggles, and then quickly sped off before a cop busted him.

At 9:30, Andre still hadn't given him a call back, so he parked somewhere nearby. The air conditioning in his car didn't work anymore, but he rolled down the windows all the way, ripped off his vest and tossed it in the passenger seat, used it as his pillow as he lay down on it, pulled out his PSP, and then lit up a cigarette while he was supine.

At 10:30, Andre still hadn't called back, and he was starting to get sleepy and steadily less okay as the minutes ticked by.

At 11:30, he beat Persona, and didn't bring another game in his cartridge. He wanted to go to a park, but he was not dumb enough to leave his car chilling here for an undetermined amount of time in the Skid, so he tried to take a nap. He was starting to feel no bueno.

A few minutes into noon, and the dude still hadn't called yet. Fuck this guy. Matt had his Krzr out again, the mood of the fucking day dampening because his plug was an unreliable piece of shit, when the phone rang while it was still in his hand. It buzzed like Pavlov's whistle, and in the subscreen he could see: Andre.

"Hey. About time," Matt answered immediately, well into irritation now.

"Yeah man, I was busy. Come up."

Matt flipped his phone shut, slamming his car door, and stalked in the 90 degree heat towards Andre's shitty little flat. His girlfriend answered the door when he knocked, a tiny little thing with black and blonde hair, and he felt bad for being curt with her, he really did, but desperate times. "Where's Andre?"

She turned around and yelled that the weird white kid with the goggles was here, unaware that Matt understood Spanish fine. And then she stepped aside and let him in, closing the door behind them.

Andre's place smelled constantly of pine, since he had those stinky trees hanging on the fans to air out the scent of pot. It was bare-bones in there — they had more bongs of various sizes lining the walls than they did furniture. His girlfriend sat back down on the Rasta rug, painting her toenails, and Andre came out of his room through bead curtains not too long after, clearly as high as Matt wanted to be right now.

"Hey, man," Andre said, wiping his hands on his shirt. "Crazy shit today."

"What?" Matt wasn't in the mood to listen to the story, but hell, Andre was his dealer after all, and the nicer he was, the quicker he got his shit.

"Hoope killing himself!" Andre laughed, gesturing to his TV sitting at the corner of the flat. No table, just on the floor. "That's whack."

Matt's jaw actually dropped. "What? For real?"

"Yeah, you don't know? Look."

Andre was watching Telemundo, but Matt knew enough Spanish to see that people were angry. A newscaster was broadcasting live from Washington, talking about the first presidential suicide in history. He could see the keywords: threats, criminals, suicide.

"What happened?"

"I dunno. Kira got to him or some shit."

Matt squinted at the TV screen. "Threats… from criminals? From sending a commando unit?"

"Who the fuck knows these days? Coulda been Kira, coulda been any psycho." Andre grinned. "Your Spanish is pretty good, man."

Matt shrugged. "Not really."

"Estoy impresionado, gringo." Andre went to his refrigerator, opening the ice cream cabby, and producing a nice collection of black tar. Matt's attention snapped back to Andre quickly. "I got eight balloons. Nothin' else. Take it or leave it."

The world's saturation suddenly got turned way lower. "Dude, come on. Eight fucking balloons?"

"Hey, you know how hard it is to get this shit these days?" Andre held out the multicolor balloons to him like they were a handful of Skittles, small enough to fit in his palm. "You don't even got one ounce of chiva in all of the States. Eso es lo que hay."

Matt had come with wads of cash, but he grumbled, pulling out his wallet from his wallet chain. "How much?"

"For you, man? A hundred and fifty."

He slipped out some fifty's and put it on the table where the potted plant was sitting, beside the TV, knowing that he was getting a cheap as fuck deal in the New Age. There were hardly any opiate addicts out there these days, and most of them were in concentrated areas of the city where gangs were powerful enough to keep the supply moving.

Matt was just shit outta luck, being an addict in the Year of our Lord Kira.

"That's why I like you, gringo," Andre said, dropping the tar into Matt's hands and taking the crumpled bills. "No bullshit. When you come here, you got all your shit ready. You're here for the good stuff."

Matt stuffed the balloons into his pockets and nodded slowly, lingering. "You really don't got any more?"

"Nope. Call again in a few days maybe." Andre paused and looked back at his freezer. "You want ganja? I can get you some ganja."

"Nah… I still have some from the last time."

"Man, loosen up sometimes. You ain't gotta do one thing only." Andre shook his head, swatting the air.

Matt shrugged, smiling a little bit. "Eso es lo que hay."

Andre grinned after a beat, and his girlfriend tittered from her spot on the rug. "Look at this guy! Man, you're hilarious. Now get outta my apartment."

Matt left, his pockets heavy, on high alert that the cops were going to bust him for either his sweet ride or his pants full of drugs. His car was as he left it, though, and he was jetting off as quickly as possible, but not too quickly that he was going to get caught for speeding. Then he was back on the interstate, safe and sound. It was lunch hour, so he was stuck in traffic for another while, and this time he wasn't feeling as hot as he was when he'd driven down.

Twenty minutes later, he was back at his apartment. The moment of truth: he dumped all his balloons out on the coffee table in front of him, counted that he hadn't lost any of them, went to unwrapping one, and decided to go slower this time around. His tolerance had gone down — he could make use of the eight, maybe stretch them out into twelve, maybe even sixteen hits. Not that that was likely, but…

He took it, mixed it, cooked it decently today now that he'd turned on the light properly, and shot up. It felt good. He inhaled deeply and blinked, withdrawing his needle and tossing it back onto the table, feeling the sticky sweet way his arms and legs flowed back into their joints again. He filled his body quite nicely, felt like his skin was hugging his muscles and bone out of its own volition, and he was back to being okay.

Matt wasn't too high today. He could still move around fine; he slid his laptop from off the end of the coffee table, sitting beside his city of empty beer bottles, and decided to go online for a bit.

The minute he opened MSN News, there it was again: David Hoope's Suicide. It was every single headline, and his face was on every single article preview. Matt sighed and scrolled through the news on his trackpad. They all said the same thing as what he'd gleaned at Andre's place: he'd committed suicide due to increasingly hostile threats from unnamed criminals.

How the fuck could that have even happened? Matt dropped his goggles and rubbed his eyes, the words going wonky on his screen whenever he blinked. People were already making an hero macros about it on 4chan, telling people to "do the Hoope," and it had popped up on several subreddits where people were saying it was definitely Kira-related. There was no way the goddamned President of the United States would just kill himself like that. The official cause of death hadn't been released, but everyone was saying it was either hanging or by gun.

Matt exhaled out of his nose and grabbed a cig, lighting it, leaning closer to the computer screen. Protests were breaking out in Washington now, and on the political side of things, the Vice President, Sairas, was really not cut out to replace him, and the First Lady had yet to make any public statement. America was in shambles.

He was ten pages deep in conspiracy theories on Wikipedia when his phone rang. Not the Krzr, so not Andre calling back to tell him he'd just found more heroin lying around at his pad. It was _that _ringtone again, screaming from out of his room. He got up and padded towards it, finding it buried in his bedsheets, and then saw that it was another call from "Unknown."

He knelt on the cold floor to pick it up. "Hello?"

"Matt, I need your help," came Mello's voice. Matt wasn't at all surprised this time.

"Was it you?"

He was referring to Hoope, and Mello seemed to understand quickly. "Yeah."

"What the fuck happened?"

"A lot of things." Mello paused. "Where are you?"

"My place."

"Come pick me up in an hour. My apartment in Westside."

"What?" Matt blanched. "Mello, what's going on?"

"I'll tell you when I see you."

"Come on, man. Tell me where we're going, at least."

"Your apartment."

"What? Why?"

Mello sounded frustrated. "Later. Pick me up in one hour. Westside. I'll brief you in the car. We're going to your apartment." And then he hung up.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Matt tossed his phone back onto the mattress and took one quick second to breathe in, breathe out, and then he ran as fast as he could while still doped towards his balloons. He had to hide that shit — quick, before Mello stumbled upon them and chewed his ass out for it. He didn't even know why he felt the need to hide it, since it wasn't exactly a secret, but it felt like something he wouldn't have wanted his mother to know, which meant that anybody from Wammy's was also off-limits.

He stashed one at the bottom of his video game crate. Mello probably wouldn't look there. Two in the ceiling of his bathroom. Probably wouldn't look there, either. And one he put in the fridge — no wait, Mello might try to see if he could steal ice cream from him — he took it out of the fridge and paced towards his bedroom and shoved it in his underwear and sock drawer. Yeah, Mello wasn't going to look there.

Last four. One in the cereal box like a prize, along with the one that was already in his pantry; one in the inside of the box for Assassin's Creed, one in his shower drain, one in the standing lamp that he'd never used anymore, which had a bunch of dead flies caught by the bulb when he'd stepped on the couch to look at it. He grabbed the rest of his paraphernalia — needles, spoons, lighters, matchboxes, dirty crusted pieces of rolling paper from back when he still smoked when he first moved to LA — and shoved it into a 7-11 bag, then nestled it in between his mattress and the wall.

He was out of breath by the end of his mission, fifteen minutes had passed, and with the rush hour traffic on the interstate right now, he was going to be late.

He grabbed two packs of cigarettes this time, just to be safe, a bottle of Percs from his bedside table, and his Zippo before he forgot again. He kept one cigarette in his mouth as he went down the stairs, lighting up the minute he got into the garage. The sun was starting to set, the clear sky orangey blue. He got back in his Camaro, the vest still strewn in the passenger seat from earlier in the afternoon, found Mello's address in his Recent Locations of his GPS, realized his gas was low, crossed his fingers that it wouldn't break down on his way there, and reversed out into the streetlit street of hardly any lights.

Twenty minutes down the congested streets of Normandie, and he merged onto the interstate, sped for a few free moments, before grinding to a halt as he saw the long row of cars that were kissing each other's asses all the way down as far as his goggled eyes could see. He was five cigarettes down and thanking the Gods that he'd had the foresight to get high earlier, but still, did Mello really need him to come all the way West to get him at fucking 5:00 PM?

He made it on his low gas five minutes late, which Matt didn't feel that bad about because he was early for the last two times they'd seen one another. Mello still wasn't there when he'd arrived at the parking lot, though, so he lit up another cigarette and waited for a few minutes before there was suddenly a light knock on his passenger car seat door.

There he was. Black fur jacket, crazy expression, peering into his tinted windows and gesturing to him to unlock the door.

Matt reached over to the passenger seat door and flicked the lock open, and Mello barrelled in like a cannonball, a briefcase tossed into the backseat, the scent of now-familiar flowery cologne filling up the car.

"Long time no see," Matt greeted, waving. "Kill any presidents lately?"

Mello ignored him. "Drive."

Matt was more than eager to get out of the oppressive environment of Mello's shitty parking lot. He didn't know Westside very well — he was hardly outside his two favorite haunts of LA, Andre's apartment and his friendly neighborhood 7-11 — but he turned a random corner when he hit the end of the street and ended up in a residential area, which was not something Mello approved of. "Where are you going?"

"Uh," Matt replied, and then decided to be honest. "I don't wanna get stuck in traffic again."

Matt could literally hear Mello's irritation. "Christ." And then, "Park over there."

"Couldn't we have gone to a bar or something normal like that? Had dinner or something?"

Mello sighed audibly, turning towards him. "Are you hungry?"

"Well, I haven't had food since 7 AM. You?"

Mello didn't answer. "We can get something to eat before going back."

And then they were out in the main streets, and Matt was sure he passed by some places on his way to Mello's place from the interstate. It was mostly diners, burger places, fast food joints — all of which sounded appealing, but he had a hard time thinking about bringing Mello to any of them. Ah, wait, there it was, the perfect choice. It sparkled in the distance of the night already mostly dark — there was a light, over at the Frankenstein place.

McDonald's.

Matt pulled in without even signalling, but Mello didn't approve of this, either. "Really, Matt?"

"Yeah. Want some nuggets."

They turned into the drive-thru, and then they ordered. Well, Matt ordered and Mello looked like he'd never seen a drive-thru in his life, and then they parked outside in the lot, Mello sitting with — after nearly one minute of considering — a garden salad, and Matt with his ten piece nugget meal, both in their laps like Christmas presents waiting to be opened. He shut off the car, rolled down the windows, and then finally, while facing the main road, watching the cars drive past as they went back home, Matt started the conversation.

"So?" He ripped open the bag, nuggets open, fries in plain view.

"So what?"

"So what did you get yourself into this time?"

Mello flipped open the lid with a touch of his gloved hands and then stared down at his salad, unmoving. "Well," he said. "Let's start with Hoope."

"Okay," Matt replied, chewing on a nugget.

"Hoope managed to find out where I'm located."

"Hm," Matt hummed, chewing on a fry.

"He sent a commando unit to storm us."

"Yeah," Matt mumbled, chewing his next nugget.

"The mission failed."

"Figured," Matt murmured, sipping his Coke.

"So Hoope killed himself. Because we threatened him with starting WWIII if he fucked us over."

Matt stopped slurping and looked over. "You can do that?"

"No." Mello had resorted to poking his salad with his plastic fork tines, but it looked mostly untouched, the dressing packet still sitting somewhere inside the bag. "Not that he knew, anyway. So he committed suicide."

"Oh." Matt frowned. "Damn."

"Yeah." Mello paused. "Remember those FBI files on my men? The ones Blackbird expunged?"

Matt nodded, licking his fingers of grease and diving back to get another fry.

"They're still up. All of them. Names and faces." Mello draped his elbow out the window, shutting his salad lid after taking a small nibble of a leaf. "So. Let's say, Killer Queen can control people as long as he has a name and a face, and it'll be completely without detection."

This again.

"There've also been information leaks between a world renowned detective whose name got stolen — let's call him Fake L — and Killer Queen. Suddenly Fake L knows the exact location of my base. Suddenly Hoope is working with Fake L, and has been convinced to send special forces to smoke us out." He listed these things on the fingers on his right hand, all while staring at Matt sharply. "What does that sound like to you?"

"Fake L and Killer Queen are in cahoots."

"Yes. What else?"

Matt chewed on his plastic straw. "Killer Queen's got all of your men's names and faces."

"Yes. And?"

"He's using them to get to you."

"Perfect." Mello leaned his head against his hand, like a punctuation to his sentence. "So."

"You're fucked," Matt finished.

"I'm fucked," Mello said, gesturing broadly.

Matt swallowed his food and decided to take the plunge. "Alright. What do you want me to do?"

"You want to help, Matt?"

Matt looked at him blankly. "You called me for my help. Just cut the foreplay and ask."

"I want you to be my extra eyes, extra ears," Mello answered, easily enough — easier than Matt was expecting, actually. Last time he had to fight tooth and nail. "Watch over my men. See which one's the snitch."

"And what am I looking at?"

Mello jerked his chin to the briefcase in the backseat. "Our centralized surveillance from our old base. When we get back to your apartment, I'll tell you exactly what to look for."

"Do we have to go back to my place?" Matt asked. Even to himself, he sounded whiny, but — he was cool with helping Mello and all, but he really didn't want to have long hours where he had to survive on Percs again. That was brutal.

"Yeah, Matt. I don't want tail you around LA just to find out where you've parked your car every day."

Matt pursed his lips. He would make do, as long as he knew Mello's hours, so he knew how to work around them. "Fine."

"It's 150K, Matt. It's a big job."

Matt rolled his eyes again, mouth full, wishing Mello didn't keep waving his money around like that. "Okay, man. Yeah. I get it."

Mello paused, looked at Matt still halfway through his McDick's, and then pulled out his phone anyway, as if he thought that he'd eaten more than enough already. His screen said that it was 17:45. "We should start heading back."

"I'm still eating."

Mello looked at him. "You can eat at home."

Matt sighed, saving his whines about his fries getting cold, and then turned on his engine again, only to see the empty fuel tank indicator on his dashboard. "Ah, fuck," he mumbled, feeling guilty about this one. "I'm almost out of gas."

Mello tsked loudly.

There was a Shell down the street, so Matt had enough to get there and get gas. He grabbed his pack of fries and locked Mello up in his car, who was using his cell phone again. Then he paid for his gas, grabbed a pack while he was at it. He was back by the pump afterwards, watching the numbers of the gallons roll as he leaned against his car and munched on the rest of his fries before they got soggy.

He glanced back at Mello to see him looking at him harshly through the passenger seat window. "What?"

Mello rolled his eyes and looked away, going back to his cellphone as if Matt had offended him. Jesus, someone was pissy. Matt shrugged and then heard the nozzle hiss. He returned the gas pump back into the slot, took the last fry, dumped the red box in the trash can, and then opened the door, took Mello's hardly touched salad after asking him if he wanted it, and left it on the street corner in case anybody wanted to have lettuce for dinner.

Then they were back in the car, flying onto the interstate, which was congested but better than it had been an hour ago. Still, it was one of those stop-and-go type situations — and Miku was telling him to fuck Normandie, which made for an easier drive up north.

It was a quiet ride of Mello poking around on his phone and checking his emails on another Blackberry, which was undoubtedly more important than making small talk was. It felt weird to pull into his complex's garage with another body inside the car — he hadn't actually had any guests over, and Matt hadn't exactly been able to clean it up good and proper before letting Mello visit.

The self-consciousness set in belatedly. Mello looked up and frowned a little bit in the darkness of the garage when they arrived, and then Matt had to lead him up the stairs, past the old lady who lived just below him and the college-aged girls who lived across. He fumbled with his keys as Mello stood behind him, arms crossed, and then when he finally led him up to his flat and got Miku to turn on the lights, he realized, trying to look at it from Mello's POV, that it was a goddamned mess.

He had forgotten to clean up much else other than the drug shit. Video game consoles spilled out of every orifice of his house, wires and controller cables slithering across every square foot. His coffee table, now looking empty without all the bent spoons and needles, still looked like a fucking shooting range with the amount of beer bottles he had lined up, teetering on the edge of becoming an even bigger mess. His shitty TV sat on a makeshift stand, but so many CDs and DVDs had littered the surface that it felt like a mountain with a screen in it. There were Amazon boxes everywhere, haphazardly containing clothes, unpacked figurines and numerous 7-11 bags of shit he needed to throw out but never got around to doing.

"Uh," Matt said, and then cleared his throat. "This is my place."

Mello didn't respond, and Matt was afraid of looking at his expression. There was a moment of silence before Mello moved first, edging past Matt, his heeled boots stepping semi-delicately over the cables towards the coffee table. He sat down on his couch, his briefcase in tow, and then set his space up in front of him where Matt usually kept his drugs.

Fuck.

Mello was already getting to work, pulling out his laptop and several disks in plastic containers from his briefcase, nothing amiss. Matt pulled his sleeves over his hands self-consciously and stared at his coffee table, scanning it for burn marks or fallen rogue tar that he'd missed in his hasty sweep.

For some reason, with Mello in the apartment now, his habit went from "probably unadvisable" to "holy shit, no one can find out." He wondered if Mello could still smell the scent of burnt heroin in the air. If he should invest in some stinky trees like Andre's place, even though doing so outed him as more of a druggie than just leaving his place as it was. Mello was sitting too close for his liking to his video game crate, where he had two balloons lying in wait. There weren't any hidden, unaccountable balloons that Matt had let get away, at least — he always kept track of every last one, blew through all of them before he gave Andre another call. Yeah, he should be okay, but wait — did he make sure to stash the balloon in the kitchen cabinet somewhere else?

Oh, the cereal box. Right. Matt sighed to himself. Thank Christ.

Mello looked up at his sigh, and then jerked his head toward the computer. "I need you to look at this."

"Huh?"

"On this disk," Mello said, and then shifted away slightly as Matt leaned down. Ah, fuck, right — he hadn't done his laundry in a while. He stepped back, turning to sniff at his pits casually. "Are cameras 1 through 28 from our previous base, until October 25th. I want you to comb through all of these on your computer between the dates October 15th until that date."

The computer screen showed a host of folders, the names hashed. Mello opened one of the files in a random folder and sped through the footage quickly — they were thankfully all motion-sensor cameras, but still, two weeks of twenty-eight cameras was a lot of fucking footage to go through. When he got to what he was looking for, he paused and pointed to a long-haired and bespectacled gentleman. "This fucker," Mello said, jabbing his gloved finger at the pixel onscreen, "is Kal Snydar. Keep an eye out for him."

Kal Snydar had a weird sheen to his skin, and walked like he hardly did it anymore. "Crackhead Kal. Got it."

"Also, the Don." Mello skipped the footage again, and then settled on a large, muscular man with a very tight-fitting suit and a head as round and as shiny as a Faberge egg. "Rod Ross. Just to be safe."

Matt nodded, putting his hands into his pockets, fishing out a pack of cigs. "Big guy. Rod. Got it." Then he paused when he got the cig in his mouth. "What am I looking for, exactly?"

"Any and all suspicious behavior. Blank, hypnotized expressions. Writing on pieces of paper. Drifting around into places that they have no business being in." Mello ejected the CD without properly quitting his programs first, the window on his screen tearing away into the digital ether, and it gave Matt a slight pain in his chest. He had little choice than to look away and light up.

"I'll give you our entrance and exit logs tomorrow, when I get them from Rod," Mello continued, placing the CD on his coffee table, close to where Matt just spotted a tiny circle of burnt glass. "I need you to watch over the new system, too. On all of your computers."

Matt blinked. "All a hundred and eighty four cameras?"

"Yes." Mello dug the CDs out of his briefcase; four of them, labelled in integers of 46 from 1 to 184 in Matt's caps lock Sharpie handwriting. "Prioritize the main lounge, but I'm sure you can find a way to keep every feed online."

Matt sighed. He had twelve laptops, and if he split them up into a four by four grid… he'd have to blow them up and multiscreen in order to see anything happening, of course, but that was manageable. Just as surveillance, at least.

And he'd have one leftover for gaming. His Lenovo would be good for that one. Ah, shit, but he had all of his programs on there…

"Any questions?"

"Uh, yeah." Matt shifted his weight. "What are your hours?"

"What?"

"Like, what time d'you reckon you'll be in and out?" Matt scratched his neck. "Y'know. Just so I know when to prepare my notes for."

Mello looked at him for longer than a beat, but then he ceded after he determined the question was Okay. "At night," he responded gruffly.

"Which means…?"

"When the sun goes down, Matt. Any other questions?"

Matt took a deeper hit from his cigarette then. "No, that's all. Just wanted to get an idea of my schedule, s'all."

"You'll find a new rhythm." Mello closed his laptop's screen without properly shutting it down, and then slid it back into his briefcase, leaving the CDs on the coffee table, stacked into two neat piles: the old base and the new. And then, as if he was looking up to say something pedestrian and not something utterly insane, "Give me a copy of your keys."

Matt stared. "What?"

"Your keys."

"Seriously?" Matt frowned. "No. What?"

"Or I'll just pick your locks every night." Mello shrugged, clipping his briefcase back into place. "But I think it'd save you and I both time if you just gave me a copy."

Matt squinted. Was that a thinly veiled jab about — nevermind. "I only have the one," he said, honestly.

"There's your homework, then." Mello stood up, edging himself out between the coffee table and the couch. Matt sighed, running his hand through his hair, feeling sorely mistaken for agreeing to his new work buddy, especially since he apparently did not understand the concept of privacy.

Well, Matt could always leave his bedroom door locked. Mello had no reason to be in there, and it at least gave Matt a semblance of feeling like he still had his own space.

"Yeah, whatever," Matt complied, but then he spoke up again after a beat. "Just… send me a text before you come over, alright?"

Mello looked at him, his eyes jumping around as he studied him.

"Fine," he said, after a long silence. And then he took his briefcase along with him and turned around towards the door, the outline of a gun very clear through the back of his fur coat, and left. Opened the door and closed it without a goodbye. He just left, as if it were his own place already.

Matt locked the door. Then he dragged an old, child-sized Amazon box filled with computer cables to the door to jam it.

It was 7 PM now. That was it. Matt had had enough, eaten enough, and taken enough shit, and if Mello was due to come back, he could wait until morning before he got a response.

So he opened his Assassin's Creed box, and he called it a night.


	10. Chapter 10

"Rod." Mello rapped on the half-opened door of Rod's office space before pushing it open. It lodged itself against a box, stopping it from opening completely, and Mello had to ease himself through the crack of the doorway. He shut it, locking it. "I have something to discuss with you."

It was the day after their move. The men of the mafia were only just learning the layout of their new home, getting used to its garish decorations, and Mello hadn't been able to isolate Rod until the very moment he found him in his mansion office, so cluttered with furniture it resembled a Victorian-era stormwreck.

Rod was distracted with Barker's desktop computer, shaking the computer mouse in his hand as if threatening it, banging it against the russet wood. His office had come prefitted with paintings from Barker's collection, but he was already in the process of taking them down — one of the narrow portraits leaned against his filing cabinet, while another was on the floor at the corner of his L-desk, face-down like a restrained hostage. "Yeah, wait, Boss." He frowned. "Do ya know how to turn on this thing?"

"Do you have it plugged in?"

Rod peered behind the screen as if he understood what the cables leading from its ports meant, looping his fingers between them. "I should," he mumbled, ducking to peer at the socket in the wall behind him. "Where the fuck's the plug…"

"It's about the raid," Mello interrupted.

Although there was a small chance that Rod was the one being manipulated, Mello decided to make an ally out of his Don regardless. There was very little he could do if Kira had chosen Rod as his target rat — there was no way for Mello to restrict his actions even if he'd found definitive proof. Rod had far too much power within the ranks.

"How do you think Hoope found us?" Mello asked in Rod's silence, resting his forearms over the back of the throne chair and lacing his fingers together, leaning in as if he cared for Rod's speculations.

Rod looked up, his eyebrows still knitted in frustration. "Huh?"

"Hoope, Rod. How'd he find us at our old base?"

"Wasn't it the SPK?"

Mello shook his head, tilting it to the side. "They weren't looking at the correct bases to begin with. They would've sent their own men. Hoope wouldn't have needed to use Saudis."

Rod's eyes narrowed as he considered it for the first time, Mello's words like motor oil to the cogs that began to visibly turn in his head. "Who was it, then?" he asked, after a long moment.

The careful way that he formed the question felt too personal. He thought it was an inside job, or some sort of bribery from a rival gang. Mello decided to extinguish the guessing game immediately — having him point wildly at the perpetrator as he ran through every rival mob gang would take the whole day. "It was Kira."

Rod raised his eyebrows, standing up straight, the answer clearly not one he was expecting. "Kira?" he echoed. "You think?"

"Yes. And I think," Mello said, lowering his voice as he wrapped his hands around the gold trim on the chair, "there might be a rat in the mafia."

There was a quiet second as Rod let the words sink in. His expression settled into something harsh. "Really?" he asked slowly.

"Really."

"Who?"

"I don't know who it is," Mello lied. He wouldn't point fingers until he had solid proof — to do so felt like an accusation. Still, Rod's eyes were fixed on him, locked through the scope of a sniper rifle; the computer's black screen all but forgotten. "But I think that Kira must have manipulated someone from our base and gotten him to leak our information."

Rod didn't respond, tilting his head in thought, skidding his eyes towards a spot behind him. Mello took this as a sign to continue.

"Eddie's mind control was virtually undetectable, and he was unconscious of it happening. Chances are, the rat himself has no idea he's done it."

"Then how we gonna know?" Rod asked, his voice thin.

Mello waited a beat before he answered, staring at Rod's dismal expression. "Entry and exit logs," he said, simply.

"Surveillance?"

"Exactly." Mello wrung his hands, the leather of his gloves squeaking in the quiet of the room. "Cameras don't lie, Rod."

Rod made a face that said that he agreed.

"Besides. If we're not careful, Kira might try the same trick twice for our new base."

Rod squinted at a thought as he bent down and started to tear through his piles and piles of paperwork, spread out on his desk and arranged into cardboard boxes. "Fuck, don't know where nothin' is 'round here," he grumbled to himself. "Let me find 'em…"

After a blind search through the boxes that lined the tops of the shelves and the rustic oak cabinets by the door, he emerged with the entry and exit logs of September and half of October, both of them written in spiral notebooks recorded by Jose. He handed them to Mello, who slipped it into his waistband with a nod.

"If you find out who he is, let me know so I'll give him the bullet." Rod walked back to his desk, tapping his temple, a resolute expression set in his mouth.

Mello quirked an eyebrow, leaning over the chair until it came close to tipping over with his weight. "His name would have been written down already, Rod," he responded steadily. "He's dead."

"You think some fuckin' notebook's gonna stop me from putting a bullet between a rat's eyes?"

Mello's eyes darted towards the back of the painting. Rod would stop at nothing to make a point. For him, murder was a currency.

"We can see what happens when we kill someone whose name is written," Mello allowed. Rod's face split open into a grin at his words, an immediate reaction.

"That's what I'm talkin' about, man. We gotta think outside the box." Rod slapped the table for emphasis, rejuvenated at the prospect of revenge. "We gotta let everyone know what we do to cocksuckers who wanna fuck us over."

Mello nodded. "We'll make him pay," he said evenly. "Make an example out of him."

Rod's laugh was a bullet that ripped through the tension in the room. He clapped, a sports game on the television, cheering for the winning team. "Yeah, man," he laughed. "That's what we gonna fuckin' do."

"That's what we'll do," Mello echoed. His forearms peeled away from the gold trim of the chair, leaving flecks of paint on his skin as he pushed it back with a tight scrape on the wooden floorboards. Rod was hungry for blood, and he would stop at nothing before he slit some throats for fucking him over.

As long as it wasn't personal, Mello would allow it. Spilling blood was a small price to pay for Rod's confidence.

* * *

Later in the evening, Mello found himself parked outside of Matt's apartment, his bike idling in the driveway beside rows of garage doors tagged with graffiti and murals. The streetlights tangled with the ferns on the trees, casting jagged, unmoving shadows on the pavement. There was a light on in one of the windows of Matt's second floor apartment, and he could see a dim warm color through slats that suggested Venetian blinds.

Since his living room windows were boarded up for God knows what reason, Mello surmised that it was coming from his bedroom.

He held onto his handlebars tightly as if they'd ground him. His headlights were shining against the green garage doors, and Matt was inside. There was a copy of his key under the musty-looking welcome mat in front of his apartment door that most likely belonged to a past tenant, and Mello just had to unlock the door. He just had to walk inside.

The first time he entered the front door, walking into the bloated mushroom cloud of Matt's scent, he felt like he was inside of Matt, staring at the way his innards stretched across the length of his apartment, the way the cables crawled along the floor like veins.

It was disturbing.

He shut his engine off and his headlights dissolved, leaving him in the quiet night illuminated only by blocked streetlights and Matt's room on the second floor. His feet felt heavy on the gravel underneath him.

He knew he would get used to this, eventually. The distance, the time and the aging made it that much worse. Matt hadn't changed very much at all, and Mello resented him for it. Yet there was an everpresent exhaustion to him, too, as if he'd fought a war and surrendered a long time ago. The teenaged softness Mello remembered with had become replaced by a hard edge that preceded adulthood, and it felt distinctly sharp and jagged, glass shards with none of the transparency.

It was the feeling that lingered on a street after a fight had broken out; the quiet still feeling of a dancefloor in the early morning. Matt had the distinct quality of the hollowness of something that had previously been filled with something.

Mello just had no idea what that something was.

But whatever Matt had done in their years apart was none of his concern. They had no obligation to each other the way they had when they were children, sharing their stories with one another like it was the prerequisite to their young friendship.

There were no more prerequisites. No more friendship.

All Mello had to do was get into the goddamned apartment.

He swung his leg over the bike and sighed inwardly, then made the trek up the stairs with lead in his boots. The welcome mat he peeled back was disgusting, crusted with something that was neither red nor brown nor black nor grey. The key sat under the rubber there, dutifully, and Mello inhaled before he unlocked his front door, held his breath as he pushed through.

The worst was over.

Matt was nowhere to be seen.

Instead, there was the sound of the shower running, coming from the bathroom just next to the front door.

The apartment had been cleaned up considerably since yesterday night. The cardboard boxes that covered the perimeter of his living room had been shoved off into a stack in a corner, clearing up a considerable amount of floorspace. The wires had been taped down and moved into semi-comprehensible paths, an organized disorder not unlike a subway map. Matt's coffee table, with its cigarette burn marks, had been wiped down, beer bottles cleared; a bright green ashtray, rather than a mug, sat at the corner of the table like a garnish.

His laptop computers filled the rest of the surface.

They were all playing four-by-four screens of the base in real time, a mess of moving bodies as his men shifted in and out of the camera's captures. Mello walked over and sat on the fabric sofa — Matt had arranged the feeds based on room, and the one showing the main lounge sat in the middle of the table, showing Rod and Snydar sitting on the couch, talking. Mello clicked around a bit to find a way to unmute the feed; when he accomplished it, Rod's voice filled the speakers and the living room all around him with the ambient fuzzy sound of a cheap microphone.

"… I saw Mullen the other day, y'know, big fuckin' guy…"

They were discussing old employees, which was none of Mello's concern. He let the stream play in the background as he slipped the entry and exit logs out from the inner lining of his jacket, spreading them out on the little space that was left over on Matt's coffee table. His focus was October; he flipped until he found the entries of the 15th onwards.

The men were never disallowed from leaving the base, but it was recorded, and everyone aside from Rod and Mello needed to leave a note explaining the circumstance whenever they exited. Jose was the primary notetaker — Mello oversaw it, but never paid it much mind. None of the entries in particular stood out to him as he pored over the pages, skimming the names with his index finger, until he reached an exit log from October 23rd at 7:03PM, through Garage C, followed by an entrance at 8:09PM. It was Snydar — the reason was left blank. Jose hadn't questioned it, either, despite Snydar being involved with none of the operations that required leaving the base.

Mello leaned his cheek on his hand, moving closer to the notebooks. The 23rd was last Friday. They'd met Sidoh that day, which meant that by 7:03PM, both he and Rod had returned to their private homes. The Death Note had been kept safe, at least; it never left Rod or Mello's side since meeting Sidoh.

A timeslot of a little more than an hour made very few things possible. An hour was far less than the time needed to complete a deal with an associate, or the time needed to go and meet with someone unrelated to the mafia. Mello had delegated the menial tasks to other men, anyway, allowing Snydar to stay out of Kira's sight, out of Kira's reach, which meant he had no reason to leave.

Mello needed to rewatch the footage.

The folders that he'd given Matt hadn't been organized by anything other than randomized codes; the date and time were stamped out on the corner of every camera, but it'd take a few hours to manually decrypt before focusing on Snydar in particular. He needed to ask Matt to scope through the files — and after that, tomorrow, he'd have to get Rod to interrogate Jose about Snydar's sudden departure, to see if he noticed anything amiss.

Mello should have killed Snydar before Kira had the chance to take him as a pawn — now he was in check. There were few moves left on the board, and the moves he had left depended on…

The shower was still running. Mello frowned at the bathroom door and stood up to stride across the living room space, stepping on the wires. The water from the showerhead sounded steady, which meant that Matt wasn't moving.

Mello leaned against the wood, beginning to doubt that Matt was inside. "Hey, Matt."

There was movement in response to his call, and Mello closed his eyes, stepping back. The acoustics of the bathroom made Matt's voice sound warped, deeper than it usually was. "Yeah?"

"I'm outside," Mello answered. "I need you to look over something for me."

The water moved around some more. "I'll be out in a minute," Matt's voice said back. "Gimme a sec, okay?"

Mello would give him as much time as he needed, and then some. He walked back to the sofa, shaking his head to himself.

He took a piece of chocolate from his pocket, shrugging his jacket off and leaving it on the seat beneath him. He dimly registered the sound of the shower shutting off soon afterwards. By the time Matt had reemerged from his shower, Snydar and Rod had finished up for the night, and the main lounge feed had gone quiet. There was the sound of the click of the lights going off, along with the bathroom fan, and Mello kept still as he glimpsed a Matt-shaped shadow amble towards him from his peripheral vision, footsteps muted like he was wearing socks.

Mello refused to shift over on the sofa when Matt reached him. It took a second for him to get it — and then he crouched down until he was eye-level to the computer, his bones creaking as he descended.

"There's no one there, huh," Matt mumbled, pawing at the trackpad.

"No. It's almost midnight."

"Didn't know mafia guys slept early hours…" Matt spoke in a low voice, as if he no longer felt the need to talk at a normal decibel because they were at his house. He rubbed at his eyes, and Mello found himself wondering why he hadn't put on his goggles yet. "What, uh… what do you need?" he asked, slowly, after a brief shiver.

Mello looked away, tapping a finger at one of his laptops. "Footage of the old base."

Matt hummed through his nose and leaned towards the screen, still on his haunches. He exited the surveillance program and pulled up the folder from Mello's floppy disk, and then looked back at Mello expectantly.

"The _old _base, Matt."

"Oh," Matt mumbled, sniffling. He pulled up the right folder this time. It had only been halfway organized until October 20th. The rest of the folders still hadn't been decrypted.

"I need all the cameras from October 23rd, focusing on Garage C and the main lounge. Put them into a separate folder when you're done." Mello pointed at the screen, waiting for a response, an affirmative, but it failed to come. Irritated now, he overrode his reservations and nudged Matt in his side with his boot, earning a sharp inhale. "Are you listening?"

When Matt looked back, his eyes were tired and half-lidded. "Sorry, yeah," he mumbled, folding his arms over his knees and leaning his chin against them, wrapping his fingers around his elbows tightly. "Garage cameras. Yeah."

Mello narrowed his eyes. Matt looked exhausted— his usual dark circles looked purple on his sallow skin, and he seemed to have a hard time keeping his eyes open, rubbing them routinely, pulling at his eyelids as if to stay awake.

"Are you alright?" Mello asked coldly.

"'m okay," Matt replied, barely moving his mouth. "Tired."

"You're tired?"

"Yeah. I didn't sleep much last night."

The way he talked was so quiet that Mello had to resist the urge to lean in to hear him, wondering why the hell he had been pulling all-nighters anyway — but before the thought could linger, he shoved the curiosity out of his mind.

"We can continue this tomorrow," Mello said, curt. "Go rest."

Matt nodded and sighed as he pushed himself off the floor, leaning over to get a cigarette from the box on his table, slipping it into his mouth. Mello looked back towards the files in front of him, his eyes reading the hashes steadily as if they made any sense to him.

"Yeah," Matt muttered, his words hard, snatching a lighter off the table from his array of multi-coloured plastics. "Sounds good."

Matt floated up and across the living room towards his bedroom door, the warm lights that Mello had stared at earlier streaming through the cracks of the doorway. He opened it just a sliver, and there was a vague outline of a low bed — a mattress — and some articles of clothing tossed lazily around the floor.

That was what was so different about Matt. His energy levels were astronomically low since they'd met again. He seemed hardly able to stay awake for longer than a few hours at a time. Did he suffer from some sort of illness?

Something moved in Mello's peripheral vision onscreen before he could complete the thought. It was the cellar cameras, the third computer from his left, extrapolated into multiple cameras lit up with green night vision. Eddie clutched at his chest and collapsed, all of the screens showing his death like a kaleidoscope until he fell face-first into the floor, blood bursting from his mouth into the shape of a flower onto the cement of the cement. The laptop clock read 12:00 AM.

* * *

When Matt woke up in his mattress, the sky was still dark.

The light was on, though, which meant he'd passed out pretty abruptly earlier. There was a hole in his shirt and the smell of ash, which meant that he fell asleep with a lit cigarette again. He was in a shirt, his pj pants, and a pair of socks, which meant he'd dressed up for company. He moved his tongue around in his mouth, but the roof of it felt dry, and he felt heavy all over his joints, fused in with his blankets like one big shapeless piece of fabric.

Which meant he was still high.

Piecing together bits of the puzzle of the night that had just passed wasn't exactly something Matt was unaccustomed to — but it had been years since he'd left the desert where he woke up in unknown hotels with unknown girls, and in LA, where he didn't stay in hotels and didn't know any girls, this was a little bit unsettling.

Matt sighed and told Miku to turn off his bedroom lights, which she did happily. In the dark, he realized something else: the lights were off in the whole flat, which didn't usually happen unless he was out of the house. This had crossed into the threshold of Definitely Wrong, and Matt had to investigate; he rolled over onto the cold hardwood floor and then pulled the bedroom door open, expecting an intruder or someone angry with a bone to pick, but instead he got just the bright light of twelve laptop screens, casting a blue-and-white glow against his living room wall.

Oh yeah.

That.

Matt padded towards the sofa, rounding the coffee table to check the time on his computers. They all said the same thing: 3:18 AM. Belatedly, the memories began to reconstruct themselves just as he shifted and stepped on something that crinkled beneath his feet.

Chocolate wrapper.

Matt frowned. Why was that bastard littering in his apartment?

Quickly, he bent over and chucked it into the garbage bin that wasn't even a few feet away from the spot it had been left. And then he sat on the couch, scanning over the surveillance footage briefly, realizing that all of the rooms were empty. One of his computers, however, had a different program running: it was a notepad document, filling up three-fourths of the screen, a small message at the top left corner like a sticky.

I'm coming back tomorrow afternoon. Prepare the files for October 23rd by then.

-M

Matt's frown deepened as he closed the window, exiting it without saving, before he came face-to-face with a dead guy lying in the cellar on eight of the sixteen squares. He flinched and switched all the feeds. He hated that shock shit — he knew Mello wasn't afraid of gore or anything, but it was a little fucked up to leave a friendly little work note on top of real life snuff footage.

There was a sick gnawing pressure at the back of his throat even after he'd closed the windows, and he felt bad for him, whoever that was. A hostage? An enemy? Some random guy they'd taken off the street to kill? His corpse was just in a mansion, rotting inside the wine cellar, broadcast miles away for Matt to be watching as if this was porn that got him off.

Was Mello trying to send him a message?

So Matt had gotten high, big fucking deal — Mello had sent a text message that he was coming over after 8 PM, and then proceeded not to show up for hours while Matt waited like a good boy, feeling his WD symptoms crawling up on him like the bogeyman. When he'd really worked himself into a frenzy because Mello still wasn't there and he was getting too dry to function, he did the next best thing.

He shot up in the shower.

Then he passed out. Fine. That was no bueno. Andre's shit was too potent this time. As good as the guy was at not ripping Matt off, he was really fucking bad at quality control — sometimes Matt could go through two bags and not feel a thing, and sometimes, half a bag sent him to funkytown.

And yeah, yesterday he was all the way there.

Mello had seemed a little concerned about his wellbeing, but he was sure that he wasn't going to jump to conclusions any time soon. Matt had done a good job in the afternoon in hiding all his spoons in his sock drawer, cleaning up the whole place and wiping it down of any rogue spots that might set Mello off on his habit. He was sure he was fine, in fact — yeah, so he fucked up a little bit this time, but he was going to be more careful from now on.

Like getting used to Mello's fucking texts. Maybe using Percs _until _Mello came back and fucked off.

If Mello asked tomorrow, he was just trying to get an achievement in Ass Creed. Mello didn't have to know that he'd aced the game already. But for now, he had to decrypt the files that Mello had asked for, pulling up everything from October 23rd, even organizing them so that he could stay in Mello's good graces…

It shouldn't take too long. A few hours? And Mello wasn't due to be back until the afternoon, which most likely meant after 2 PM.

He could get high again after he was done the decryption. Reward to himself. He went to the kitchen to prepare a bowl of cereal before he got to work.


	11. Chapter 11

The surveillance room was a panel of high quality images stretched over the cool cement wall, a mosaic of ten men and hundreds of pieces of furniture. Mello stared at the bright glow of the screen, Rod leading Snydar across the panelled space as they slipped from left to right. They marched up the stairwell and through the mezzanine, stopping outside the metal sliding doors that housed the control room.

According to Jose, Snydar had ignored him when he stopped him at the gate on the 23rd. He had assumed that Snydar was high, because he looked like he was in a trance, and left the log blank.

Mello knew what a high looked like. It wasn't the blind hypnosis at the hands of an apathetic book.

He slid his foot farther down the desk, hooking his elbow around his knee as Rod entered the password on the keypad outside, the whoosh of the sliding doors muffled in the closed space of the antechamber. Six more digits, and Rod pushed Snydar into the main room, his hands behind his back, his face drawn into hesitance and wariness.

The two men started when they saw Mello, lounging in front of the screens. He snapped his chocolate as a greeting, and jerked his head.

"Sit." He pushed a swivel chair towards the center of the room with his dangling leg, twisting his head to the side as he gnawed at his piece of chocolate. "There are some things I want to ask."

Snydar eased himself into the chair, his head bowed, his frail hands in his lap. Rod was in the dark about this meeting, as well; he stood by the doorway like a bodyguard, his arms folded, looking at Mello with both patience and anticipation, as if he wanted to get his money's worth for staging this interrogation.

Mello was confident that he would.

"Last Friday," he began. At his voice, Snydar looked up, his eyes trying the bare minimum to keep eye contact. "Did you leave the base?"

"I… don't think I did," Snydar replied unsurely. "No, I don't think I did."

Mello shook his head at the answer. To deny a statement like that was moronic. He yanked a drawer out beneath him, where he'd planted the logs earlier, and took the spiral notebook in his hand, slipping a finger inside its binding to bookmark the page he needed. "Rod. Read the log for October 23rd. 7:03PM."

Rod moved fluidly into his role, walking towards Mello briskly. He lifted the notebook from Mello's hand, squinting in the darkness of the room and tilting it towards the fluorescent glow of the screens. "Jack Neylon, exit through Garage C," he read aloud. "No reason listed."

"One of the signs of the notebook's control is memory loss," Mello continued, rolling his head to the side to stare Snydar down with ferocity. "So. Let me ask you again. Last Friday, did you leave the base?"

Snydar moved his head vaguely, somewhere between a nod and a denial.

Mello took it as an affirmative. "Why didn't you leave a note, Snydar?"

Snydar moved his head again.

"Fine," Mello responded, pulling his leg into his chest. "You don't have to speak. We have surveillance footage for that."

One of the television screens had been switched off, like a knocked out tooth in the bright white panels. He leaned over to turn it on, and an image flashed on the small square. Matt had showed it to him earlier in the afternoon, after he'd decrypted the rest of the old base files, and then he'd stitched all the relevant footage into a playable video.

Mello pressed Play. The image jumped to life: Snydar in the base, the white row of numbers denoting the time jumping to say it was 19:00. The base was empty; Rod and Mello had left minutes prior. Snydar sat alone in the main lounge, and then, suddenly, he straightened his back rigidly and dropped the drink he was holding, spilling it onto the tiled floor.

Rod was watching, the screen casting white circles in his dark eyes. Fixated, vindicated.

Snydar drifted through the space of the factory like a forlorn apparition, simultaneously purposeful and purposeless in his gait. The way he floated towards his car was eerie and quiet. He drove out the base with the same emptiness in his expression, the same rigidity in his spine, like a marionette doll held up by an invisible child.

The car rolled towards the gate, and half of Jose's figure moved into the frame. Snydar ignored him. Their old cameras hadn't picked up sound, and Jose's mouth moved with more vigor until throwing his hands up in the air, frustrated, letting him through. Sidoh, a bin-like shape, waved its gangly little arms as Snydar passed, the car driving at a mechanically stable speed.

The footage cut, and Mello paused the video. Rod inhaled in the quiet buzz of the room, and Snydar tore his eyes away, gazing at the grey tile.

"What did you leave the base for, Snydar?" Mello asked, his voice echoing in the hollow room.

"I sent a letter," Snydar responded, quickly enough to be honest. Mello hadn't known that victims of the notebook retained a faint outline of a memory — and somehow, the implication of the Death Note supplying pieces of unconscious knowledge felt even more terrifying than the idea of it causing complete amnesia.

"You sent a fuckin' letter?" Rod cut in, the first thing he'd said since he watched the footage. There was a pit in his voice, heavy and solid; something that Mello recognized without even looking up. A deep-seated anger, unfurling from his solar plexus. "Who d'ya got to send fuckin' letters to, Kal?"

Snydar buckled under the weight of Rod's cold, metallic ferocity immediately, bowing his head lower. He mumbled, so quietly that it was pitiful. "My mother."

"Bullshit." Rod slapped the table, his gold rings singing in the room. "Your fuckin' mother. Bullshit."

Mello had shown Rod the footage of Eddie's mind control right after the experiment had finished, and he knew that the importance of letters weighed on his Don's conscience just as heavily as it did his. Snydar was corresponding with Kira. He had undoubtedly done what Mello had predicted, and leaked their address to someone who had no business knowing where they were.

"I don't trust you, Snydar," Mello said neutrally, a hotbed of nonchalance between Rod's fiery anger and Snydar's growing fright. "If you can't provide any proof of your innocence on the 23rd, we'll have to prevent you from leaving the base."

"Boss," Rod interrupted. "He's a rat bastard. You know what we fuckin' do to rat bastards."

Mello turned his head. Rod's hand, still resting on the table, was balled up into a tight fist, a vein pulsating at his neck, but his face was entirely impassive, and his posture was relaxed.

It must have taken the man self control the force of a battle tank to stop from shooting Snydar between the eyes at that moment, and none of it was due to the fact that they were decade-old colleagues. The restraint came solely from respect for Mello's plans, respect for their de facto partnership that had served them so well over the years.

"Yeah. We make examples out of them." Mello pulled handcuffs from his back pocket, leaning back and dangling the metal from his index finger. "Cuff him, Rod."

"Cuff? Boss, cuffing him won't do shi—"

"He's our eyes," Mello responded sharply, and Rod fell silent. "We need his fucking eyes. Cuff him, Rod."

There was a tense silence as Rod twitched, and Mello wasn't sure if it was for his gun or for a brawl. Then, he snatched the handcuffs from Mello's hand and stomped towards Snydar, slapping the links onto his wrists, his brows furrowed deeply enough that Mello could only see a shadow where his eyes had been.

Mello had promised Rod cold revenge, but he knew that they couldn't spill Snydar's blood yet. There was use for him still, and they could use him to get to Kira. To tempt the Death Note's fate by shooting him would only render their link to the enemy useless.

They needed an example, not a corpse.

Rod stood behind Snydar when he finished, gripping his shoulder tightly, bunching the cheap fabric in his thick fingers. Snydar's hair fell over his pained expression, his mouth forming a thin line. The shadows cast over his face made him look sunken, sallow, skinny. Suddenly, Mello remembered Matt again.

"If we catch him doing anything else," Mello continued, looking away and addressing Rod. "You have my permission to kill him."

"And if we don't?" Rod asked, veering into being a challenge.

"If we don't, then you're not looking close enough." Mello nodded, resolutely, leaning forward as if telling Rod a secret. "He's our key to Kira, Rod. Never let him out of your sight."

Rod stared at him, his eyes dark, his jaw tight. "Got it, Boss."

* * *

Back at the apartment, Matt heard the lock click behind him while he was playing Gran Turismo on his PSP, and he didn't look back when he heard Mello's tell-tale heeled boots and smelled the scent of flowery, musky cologne again. After all, he was nothing more than an unwilling, unconsenting roommate — and he was seeing Mello way too much in a day for them not to bypass the cordialities by now.

Mello rounded the coffee table, and Matt could see his leather-wrapped legs in his peripheral vision, just behind his makeshift control panel of laptops. He'd already helped him a few hours ago with Kal Snydar's files, going so far as to make him a Movie Maker project of all the footage combined. He wasn't sure why Mello was back so soon, as if he didn't have a whole cast of mafia goons to do his grunt work for him already.

When he realized Mello wasn't leaving from his position in front of him, he spoke up. "Yes?" Matt asked, without looking away from the screen.

"There are some semiautomatic weapons that I need you to pick up at a safehouse in the valley," Mello replied, immediately.

"Semiautomatic weapons?"

"Yes, Matt." Mello shifted around, his legs moving, before producing a small card from his pocket. Matt paused the race as Mello handed it to him, flipping it over: there was a name and a small photo on it. Zakk Irius. Some long-haired blonde dude with a strong jaw. "They aren't from the Los Angeles family, so you should be fine getting them without getting intercepted. It's a blind safehouse."

Matt put down the card, frowning as he processed what was coming out of Mello's mouth. "You want me to get you guns?"

Mello looked back with businesslike coldness, his gaze unrelenting. "Yes. There's an address written on the back of the card."

"This definitely wasn't part of the job description," Matt mumbled, saving his game and turning it off. He was no stranger to guns, of course, but having to pick them up for a mobster was something that veered a little out of his comfort zone. "Since when did I need to actually get out of the house for this?"

"Since Kira is trying to kill me, Matt. You're my extra legs, too."

Matt grumbled as he put his video game into his back pocket, mulling around the living room to get his vest, feeling Mello's penetrating stare as he did so. When he found it, he picked up a pack that was sitting out on the coffee table, tapping it against his palm.

"Fine. You owe me a pack, though," he said, slipping a cig into his mouth. "Or ten."

"We'll see," Mello responded dismissively, replacing his spot on the sofa to watch over the feed, and Matt must have stood at the door for a second too long trying to make sure he'd remembered to bring everything, because Mello snapped at him. "What are you waiting for?"

Matt put up his hands defensively. "Nothin', man, Jesus. Don't get your panties in a twist. I'm leaving."

Christ, Mello and his bitchy moods. Matt jiggled his pocket for his keys, his wallet, his phone, his PSP, his pack of cigs, and went back to get a gun to stash in his boot for good measure.

Mello ignored him when he came back, fully loaded, and finally left the door.

The address was somewhere in Van Nuys, north of the valley, and a long drive up. It was late afternoon, and Matt was getting awfully used to getting stuck in LA traffic after starting to work with Mello — so much that he was beginning to think that he was more of a chauffeur than whatever-the-fuck jobname he was now.

He was up there by the time the sun started peeking over the bend like it was playing hide and seek with him, and he had to flip down the sun visor because it was shining directly into his eyes, goggles be damned. The heat was pummelling down on his hands against the steering wheel, and he was trying to focus on the numbers on the homes as they ticked forward down 5th Ave. He needed a 7051 — he was in a residential neighborhood with quaint pastel duplexes, and then he made a right towards a Hispanic church that looked like it was inside a trailer park, and then he missed his destination.

Miku shrieked at him to make a U-turn, but he hadn't seen a single thing resembling a safehouse nearby. It would have helped if Mello had told him what exactly the safehouse _was _— Matt wasn't planning on having this much trouble, but seriously, he didn't do this everyday, he didn't know what kind of places Mello used to stash his guns.

He went back, made a U-turn and pulled back into a lot of a liquor store, ignoring the honks and angry, spit-filled "Cabrón!"s at his championship driving skills.

The liquor store was a completely different number than where he was supposed to be, but it definitely looked like one of those places that Matt could imagine having guns stashed in the back, like the movies he'd seen as a kid. He decided to try it, because what could it hurt — he could ask for directions, buy a lotto ticket, or get Mello's guns and bounce.

He entered and went straight to the counter. A dude with a five o'clock stashe was standing there, sorely disinterested, eyeing Matt down in a way that made him feel a criminal for even walking in at all.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"Uh, yeah." Matt slipped the card out of his pocket, sliding it over the counter. "Do you know where this is?"

The guy looked at him strangely and turned the card around, reading the address. "That isn't here," he said helpfully.

"Okay. So where is it?"

"I think it's a house back there." He gestured vaguely behind him, towards where Matt had come from. "On Fifth Ave."

"They don't look like…" Matt paused, and shook his head. "Do you know Zakk Irius?"

"No."

"Okay." Matt was about to turn around, but then he stopped himself mid-turn. "A Powerball ticket please."

Then he left the store with the ticket and a pack of gum that he didn't pay for, got into his car, and after another U-turn, he stopped by a nice little home just at the edge of the neighborhood, a cute silver Sedan in the driveway, and one of those plastic children's cars by the screen doors.

7051.

This was the fucking safehouse.

No wonder he missed it the first time through.

Matt parked on the street, hesitant to get into the driveway. These people had kids — there was one of those "Baby on Board" stickers on the back of the Sedan, and a car seat in the back. He felt weird and awkward and hot all over as he walked up their front door steps, carefully avoiding their potted plant and strung-up decorations, which were clearly an art project from school, and then rang the buzzer.

Bzzzt.

He buzzed twice, the second time after a thirty second interval, his hope that he'd gotten the right place that was purposefully misleading diminishing with every breath he took. He was about to give up when the door suddenly swung open, a black screen door keeping him and the long, curly-haired woman in a loose green frock from talking to each other face-to-face.

She stared at him, a baby in her arm.

He stared at her, a gun in his boot.

"Uh," he started, stepping back to peer at the number beside her door. "Hi. Is this 7051?"

She held her baby closer to her shoulder, a child's screaming ringing from down the hall. "Yeah."

"Uh." Matt scratched the back of his head and fumbled for the card in his vest pocket, pulling it out slightly damp. "Zakk Irius."

"Who?"

"Do, do you have a husband or something?" he asked, peering around her into the house. She stepped in front of his line of sight, blocking his view. "Do you know M?"

"No," she said, her wide eyes turning suspicious. "I think you got the wrong house."

Matt looked down at the card, then back up at the house, then back at her, her suspicious and slightly frightened face. "This is 7051, isn't it?"

"Who are you?"

"An associate."

She furrowed her thin brows. "You got the wrong house. We don't do that shit here."

"Hey, wait—"

She shut the door on him without a reply, leaving him to stare at the 7051 like a bad omen. Don't do that shit here? Did he just waltz up to an unsuspecting citizen and accost them about mafia relations?

He squinted at Mello's handwriting again — the 5 might be a 6, on second thought. Perhaps there was a 7061 that Mello wanted him to go to. But this was the last house on the avenue, before they hit the intersection. There was no 7061 that even existed, which meant that maybe he'd gotten the wrong Fifth Ave entirely.

He hopped back into his car, locking the doors before deciding to give Mello a call. Fuck SMS, the guy never replied to those anyway.

The call went straight to voicemail. Voicemail was full.

Mello's phone was off.

Matt frowned, staring at his cellphone, leaning back in his seat. That was weird… Mello had texted him before going to his apartment, which meant that he'd turned it off after Matt had left. Why would he do that, unless he didn't want Matt to contact him?

Realization dawned on him a second later, and he felt his heart fall from his chest, splattering onto the floor of his Camaro.

It was a fucking setup — Mello needed him out of his own apartment because he was going to do something awful.

Matt needed to get back, _now_.

* * *

He felt like he was caught at every red light on his way back to Koreatown, and Mello must have timed it so that he was stuck in traffic back down. The sun had fully set, and his nerves were completely haywire, waiting for him to get back to his home before they could shut the fuck down and chill the fuck out. There was sweat beading down the back of his neck, but he knew it wasn't from the heat; his palms felt clammy against the steering wheel, leaving skidding dark marks on the vinyl like a bad mistake.

All the way, he'd hooked up Miku to his cellphone through Bluetooth and kept asking her to call Mello, over and over again. Every single time the bastard had his phone off. A fucking taunt, hiding whatever Mello was doing in his apartment, whatever maniacal bullshit he was up to next.

Well, Matt wasn't enrolled in the world's only genius orphanage for no reason. He knew what Mello was doing, and he knew Mello didn't buy his excuse about playing Ass Creed all night earlier this morning. It was just his fucking fault for realizing too late.

Matt was feeling like a fucking cabrón, alright.

He pulled back into his apartment and then headed up the stairs in record time. He was out of breath by the time he reached the front door, had to stop outside to catch it again, and then he unlocked the door as quickly as he could, pushing the door open, hopeful to see Mello in the same position as when he'd left two hours earlier, apologizing for forgetting to charge his phone or something innocuous and nice like that.

What he got instead was what he'd wanted to see the absolute least.

Mello had let him enter the apartment first before he shoved him against the back of the door, pressure holding his chest in place, undoubtedly sensing the way his heart had tripled in speed beneath his shallow ribcage. Matt didn't want to look, but he had to — Mello's gloved fist was closed tightly around something, the leather squeaking as he held it beside his glowering face.

His eyes were deadly. Fucking murderous. Staring at him like he wanted to kill him, right then and there, and Matt wouldn't be surprised if he did.

He looked down and realized that the pressure against his chest was sharp, focused, a pinpoint — the barrel of Mello's gun, a rosary dangling from beneath the grip, digging into his sternum enough that Matt wasn't sure if Mello knew it was a pistol or thought it was a dagger instead. Regardless of what had happened, he really wasn't expecting there to be a gun introduced into this fight, and he breathed in shakily, looking up at Mello with as much innocence as he could muster.

"Mello…"

"So Matt," Mello cut in, overlapping with his words, and Matt shut up. "When were you going to tell me?"

Matt played dumb. "What?"

He turned his fist upright, flat, and then uncurled his fingers. His heroin balloons sat in his palm, bright and colorful like a birthday party about to be turned massacre, and Matt was Pagliacci the goddamned clown, counting his last breaths.

"Oh," he breathed.

Mello slammed him harder against the wood, shoving the barrel of his gun deeper into his gut. He wasn't expecting for it to hurt, but it did, shooting high-speed razorblades up his nervous system, making his whole body ache like a sucker punch when the words landed.

"You fucking _junkie_."


	12. Chapter 12

The room was spinning. Mello had him pinned to the spot, something dangerous and awful spilling from his pores that made Matt realize that he had no fucking idea where Mello had been in their five years apart, what kind of shit he'd seen, and just what he was capable of. He could feel his heart beating out of his chest, out of his ears, practically out of his head, and he couldn't stop his breaths from speeding up as Mello trailed his gun up his chest to his forehead and stepped back, straightening his arm, execution-style.

"Mello," he said again, raggedly, his hands flat against the door like he was trying to melt through it and escape. "I can explain."

"You can explain?" Mello repeated, narrowing his eyes into something focused and menacing, razor-sharp and murderous. He had never seen this Mello in his life. "How the fuck are you going to explain this?"

"I…"

Matt trailed off. He couldn't. He really couldn't. He watched as Mello rotated his fist, palm-down, the balloons plip-plopping onto the ground like jellybeans on a leather slide.

Then he stomped on them with his boot.

Matt couldn't stop the gasp that the action wrenched from his throat, more pain than if Mello had actually, physically attacked him. It was definitely the worst thing he could have done. When he looked up, Mello's were eyes burning with hellfire, staring at him a shaken-up soda can of anger, hatred, and disbelief.

"Fucking junkie," Mello spat, the word dripping with acid like he couldn't load it with any more venom or his tongue would rot off. He pressed the barrel hard against the middle of Matt's forehead. "You thought you could hide this from me?"

"No," Matt mumbled pathetically, his neck hot. Mello pressed the gun even harder into his skin in response, and Matt winced.

"Do you think I'm stupid, Matt?"

"No, I don't."

"You think I don't know what a junkie fucking looks like, Matt?" The guard knocked against his goggles. "What the fuck do you take me for?"

"Nothing. Please." The plead slipped out before he knew what it meant, and it set Mello off again, the pressure increasing, nailing his brain to the door with a nice _thump _. He hissed, pain on all fronts of his cortex.

"Please what?" Mello demanded, his words harsh through his gritted teeth. "You good for nothing piece of shit."

Matt flinched at the insult. "Stop…"

"Do you know what I do to junkies who try to con me for 150K, Matt?" Mello flipped off the safety. Matt felt his heart jump into his tonsils at the click, and Mello was glaring at him with eyes that were so goddamned frenzied he wasn't even looking at him anymore. "Do you know what I do to worthless pieces of trash like you?"

"Mello, stop it." Matt couldn't speak up. His voice, his words, his hands, his knees were shaking. "It's not like that."

"Shut the fuck up."

Matt tried again, rasping. "Mello, it's not about that…"

"Fuck you."

For once, Mello seemed like he'd run out of things to say. He poised the gun between his eyes, his grip unwavering, still as stone, and Matt felt himself pulled underwater as the shakes became too much. His ex-best friend was going to murder him. He'd known things were different now, and he knew that their past friendship was unsalvageable at this point, but this — this was his first taste of what Mello was really like, and now it was going to be his last.

Mello was going to kill him. Matt was going to die.

He inhaled shakily, waiting for the blast. He hoped it'd be quick. He hadn't woken up thinking he was going to die today, but he supposed he wasn't surprised. He exhaled slowly. The cold press of the barrel was slowly warming against his skin. He was getting used to the pressure. Was he dead and he just didn't know it yet?

He opened an eye without realizing that he'd closed them in the first place, and Mello was still staring at him, quiet, the hatred so hot and so palpable he could sunbathe in it. The rosary dangling on the handle was one that Matt didn't recognize, and he wondered why Mello still kept the charms when he clearly didn't follow the rules. He inhaled shakily again, feeling it catch in his chest, his heart still going haywire like it'd forgotten how to function.

"Mello," he croaked. He'd found his voice somehow. It was lying there, in easy enough reach. In a last minute surge of defiance, he muttered, "Don't."

Mello didn't reply, still, holding the gun tightly, his finger hooked around the trigger. He was going to pull it. It was milliseconds away from unloading. Matt braced himself like it was a jumpscare in a movie, ignoring the part where he'd be dead by the time it was over. He held his breath, and counted to three.

To five.

To… Mello still wasn't pulling the trigger. He opened an eye just a crack, and saw Mello with the same expression, holding the gun with the same determination, and he had to make sure time hadn't been standing still. The laptop screens were still moving.

"… You're not going to do it, are you?" Matt whispered, maybe more to himself.

No response. Mello pulled his arm up, and Matt was about to breathe a sigh of relief when a blind, dull pain shot through his head, and his vision faded to black.

* * *

Matt was sprawled on the hardwood floor against the arm of his fabric sofa, goggles askew and mouth dangling open like a corpse.

Mello had had enough. He needed to shut him up first, but this was unfinished business.

He stepped over Matt's body and trained his beretta onto his face, onto the reddened spot where the barrel had pressed into his skin. The safety was still off. If he pulled the trigger, he'd splatter the hardwood tile with thick globs of Matt's brain matter. Strands of his blood, flecks of his skull. Bone-white and cherry-red against the dusty grey olefin.

His gloved finger creaked.

After pulling the trigger, he would have to clean up Matt's organs from Matt's apartment. Call mafia goons to dispose of Matt's body. Pick up the soft jello-like cubes of Matt's temporal lobe. Wonder which part held their memories from the House. Pour bleach over the cracks of the hardwood floor to remove all evidence of Matt's tangy, crusted blood. Smell it in his hair even after he'd returned home, the heavy metallic scent lining the inside of his nostrils like a carpeted floor.

He flipped the safety back on, lowering the gun, swallowing a viscous feeling creeping up his throat. Multicolored heroin balloons sat crushed beside Matt's awkwardly bent knee, and Mello replaced the gun at his waist and sneered.

Junkie.

Good for nothing drug fiend.

Mello bent down to scoop the drug balloons into his pocket, turning his heel so he didn't have to see his face anymore. Matt was a junkie. Five years, and he'd gotten hooked on dope. He'd decided to throw his life away by nineteen. Kill whatever was left of his brain with opioid abuse.

He paced back into Matt's bedroom, where he had been doing most of the sweep, and switched the light back on. The stupid boy had thought that a poorly constructed deadbolt door lock would have kept the rest of his secrets away, hiding them carelessly in bedside drawers and socks, burnt spoons and syringes in a plastic bag between the wall and the mattress. Mello had found all of them in under ten minutes, unearthing latex-covered black tar pebbles from the corners of all of his furniture like crusted mold.

Matt's bedside drawer was still ajar when he slammed the door shut behind him, and he glared at it and its scarce innards. A bottle of Percocet, prescription from earlier in June addressed to another one of his dirty gag pseudonyms, and a strip of eight condoms out of a pack of ten, expiring in a little over a month. Two quarters, three match sticks, a red elastic band and scattered tobacco all over the pale wood.

Mello lifted the bottle and slammed the drawer shut.

There was a tub of petroleum jelly on his bedside table. Used, the surface smoothed into ridges. A fire engine red lighter, the sticker peeled off, fluid still inside. A small speaker set of some sorts, dust coating the top. Black and red headphones spilling from the edge. A few stray batteries, presumably used and dead.

Mello turned around towards the closet doors to unearth more fossils of Matt's archeology. He was seeing Matt's history for what it was now. Bleak and empty.

Five shirts, and three of them were stripes of varying degrees and colors. The black windbreaker he'd worn the night they met again. A red hoodie. Two pairs of pajama pants, and a pair of track pants that looked unused, buried at the bottom and crumpled in carelessness. A considerable collection of ankle socks. Eight pairs of boxers, some cleaner than others.

The closet doors were stained mirrors, and when slid shut, reflected a dismal view of the small room. Matt would be sleeping with the image of himself in his low, stained mattress, buried in his thin linen sheets. Mello grit his teeth, tapping his foot as he considered any spots he would have missed. He'd already inspected the box of cables at the foot of his mattress, the broken fan, the water bottles that lined the inside of his closet that were clearly untouched. Mello had probably cleared most of the drugs — Matt was still buying them in balloons rather than by the ounce, which meant that he didn't have much.

Good. That meant whoever he got it from was a lower-end supplier, who didn't get a large cut of the heroin in California.

Mello crossed his arms, scanning the room for a final time before flicking the switch off. He'd found some other balloons behind the bathroom cabinet, in his empty pantry, in the box of the video game he kept mentioning that was keeping him up all night. When he exited the door, he saw Matt again, still sprawled on the floor, out cold, breathing shallowly.

He resisted the urge to kick him when he stepped over his body and opened the door, sliding him further along the floor as he did so. He heard Matt's head hit the ground with a sharp thud after he'd eased himself out of the apartment. He closed the door behind him, locking it.

Goddamned junkie.

Mello recalled kids who couldn't cope with the pressures at Wammy's House, turning their focuses towards becoming a detective. They turned to drugs, to alcohol, to crime, or to suicide.

Matt was never one of them. He had no reason to be a heroin addict, which meant it was a passing fancy. Another fad, like his cigarettes; a habit that he just couldn't kick. That was Matt: moveable and malleable like molten glass, and then stuck in whatever shape he took for a lifetime.

It was Mello's mistake for thinking otherwise. After all, what did he know? Matt was a child when they'd been close, and clearly, he was too weak to survive in the real world when he became an adult.

Matt was dead. The world had killed him, turned him into a pathetic vessel of what he used to be.

Mello paced down his stairs and pushed through the front screen door. His bike was glinting in the setting sun, and he stormed towards it, eager to leave the vicinity of the dilapidated house, the disgusting neighborhood. All he saw was broken furniture littering the front porches, cracked sidewalks, houses that contained too many people. Matt was nothing. Nothing but a junkie.

Mello had a few calls to make.

* * *

What Matt saw when he came to was the ceiling. Stucco, popcorn ceiling — which was a familiar sight, since he spent so much of his time nodding out on the couch — but something was wrong.

He was low. The ceiling was too far away. He tried to move, and then suddenly realized his back hurt in a way that said he'd been out for too long, on a surface that was not good to be out on. He groaned and tried to get up off his elbows, but then he felt pain in his skull crashing over him and pushing him back down onto the hardwood. It was centred right at his hairline, and he touched it gingerly, expecting crusted blood or something like that, but all he got was the same pain, centralized and amplified.

Ouch.

So he definitely didn't just nod from a high. There were emotions in the back of his head, and they felt like need. He was dry, and his body was doing a hell of a job trying to tell him it. Something awful had happened, he remembered that. Something to do with a gun, some balloons, and rules of the Bible not being followed…

Oh.

Matt swore, squeezing his eyes shut and pushing himself onto the elbows, headache be damned.

Fucking hell, Mello had… he peered around the hardwood floor, raising his ass off the ground, checking under his hands or his boot or please God please still be there, under the couch or something, pushed under some furniture or something, please —

The balloons were gone.

His heart was somersaulting with as much vigor as his head was pounding. He lifted himself up and had to balance himself against the door, pulling himself up with the brass knob. Fuck, Mello was gone; there wasn't anybody on his sofa, the laptops were idling, and there wasn't any noise anywhere in the bathroom to suggest that he had company. Mello had held him at gunpoint, about to execute him, and then…

Shot and missed?

Matt frowned, palming his hair for a bulletwound, glancing down at the floor for bloodstains. Clean as a virgin. Mello hadn't shot him, which meant that he'd held him at gunpoint as a threat, which was fucked up in its own right, and then pistol whipped him to silence. Knocked him out cold.

Matt winced as he tried to sit up further, cradling his head in his hands. Why didn't he kill him? Mello had all the files already; hell, he had Matt's goddamned apartment keys. Matt was really saying his last prayers, going through the list of people he had to say goodbye to, coming up empty — maybe Andre'd miss him, that was it — but Mello had spared him.

For some reason.

Matt pushed himself off the door and then tried to walk, swaying at first. He went to his standing lamp, pulling himself onto the couch, and to his chagrin — there was nothing. The balloons were gone.

His heart positively speeding now, he walked to the game crate — the balloon in Ass Creed was gone, and so were the ones buried at the bottom. Fuck. Shit. He went to the pantry next. Gone. He tried the bathroom mirror. Gone.

Fuck.

Oh Jesus fuck.

He jiggled his bedroom doorknob, hoping desperately that Mello hadn't gone in there, but the knob turned easily enough that he knew he was fucked. His room was as he left it, but the balloons were gone. Every last goddamned balloon was gone. Not a single one in his bedside, not a single one in his drawers. The fucking Perc bottle was gone, too, and Mello really didn't have to go _that _far, he wasn't even _supposed _to be here.

Matt made a low keening noise in his throat and kicked his bedside table as if it would change anything.

Fuck Mello.

Suddenly, he remembered his best hiding spot, and returned back to the bathroom in a haste, holding onto the wall before he toppled over from the pain in his skull. He flipped the toilet seat down and stood onto the porcelain, boots heavy, pushing the ceiling up. Two of the balloons were still there, and he sighed in relief, hearing angels sing as he touched the latex. The one in his drain was gone, though. Mello was thorough, at least — his shower drain hadn't been cleared of its gunk for long enough that Matt felt an inkling of shame creeping up into his face for him to have to dig through it, but it still paled significantly to the desperation he felt in realizing that he was suddenly eight balloons shorter than he was when he began the day.

He cradled the balloons in his hand like they were 48 carat diamonds, stepping down gingerly so he wouldn't drop them. Two balloons would last him three days at most if he really tried to cut down — but it was impossible to know with Andre's quality control whether or not Mello had taken all the good ones and left only the diluted ones behind. Matt found himself hoping desperately that God was on his side and that these last two were going to somehow tide him over until next week.

He needed to call Andre.

He grabbed onto his towel rack to steady himself and palmed for his cell phone in his pocket. It was still there, in the back, battery was still good — he had him on speed dial. Beep beep. The dial tone was ringing, and Matt was trying to calm his breaths that had started to speed up into pants, his heart breakdancing in his chest, pressing at the tender spot at his hairline. He should probably ice it, he had ice cream for that… the phone rang for what seemed for a minute, and then suddenly, he heard a noise at the other end and it sounded like God Himself.

"Andre," he griped, unable to mask the panic in his voice. It was high and desperate, like he was going through puberty all over again. "Andre, dude, you there?"

"Yeah."

"Do—did you get some more in?"

"Not yet, gringo." Andre sounded unpleased, unpleasant. Matt hardy ever begged — and Andre always had enough to tide him over — but this was an extenuating circumstance, goddamnit. "Call back in a few days, man."

"Dude, but, Andre, dude, do you know where else I can get any?"

"You want me to introduce you to a new dealer, man? Get the fuck outta here." Andre laughed slowly, clearly as high as Matt aspired to be again. "You got, like, five balloons, don't ya?"

Matt gripped the towel rack like he was going to tear it out of the wall. "I don't have those anymore."

"You went through that many balloons in two days?"

"It's a long story, man. C'mon."

"Call back in a few days. Smoke some ganja. It'll do you good, man." The line went dead, and Matt sighed deeply, inhaled deeply, exhaled deeply, and then let go of the towel rack, listening to the hollow rattle it made as it spun. He had two balloons left. Two balloons, one guy — which sounded infinitely less appealing than that other video — he cradled it to his chest and walked towards his bed, grabbing his 7-11 bag of paraphernalia that Mello had surprisingly left alone.

All of his shit with him now, he walked to the freezer and took out an ice cream sandwich. All he had. He pressed it against his head, hissing as the ice made contact with his skin, and dragged himself to the couch to get his shit ready for a hit before his body screamed any more bloody murder at him. He wasn't about to WD, after all.

Not that he necessarily needed to WD at this stage. A few days meant three or so. If he really took it slow, he could make it last. Andre always came through — he was a good plug, and he always found a way to get H even when the rest of Cali had gone dry.

God, Matt's head was pounding, and he grimaced as he leaned onto his knees.

Three days. That was doable.

But, fuck — if Mello had cleared out his ceiling, too, then Matt _really _might have started to cry.


	13. Chapter 13

The following night, Rod had called Mello into the base. He had sensed no urgency over the telephone, and Mello's was the only mafia-owned motorcycle to pull into the underpass. When he unlocked the front door to the mansion, Rod was sitting on the zebra-print couches, a whiskey in his hand.

Mello narrowed his eyes at Rod as he shut the door behind him, his arm draped over the back of the couch, his legs spread. The lights were off, save for the glow of the fireplace, and his necklace glinted, golden in the orange flames. His whiskey glass tinkled in the quiet as he swirled it in his hand.

"Evening," Rod greeted, without looking up from his glass. The flames crackling was the only other noise that filled the living room. "Mello."

Mello didn't move. "Rod," he responded quietly.

"I got something to ask you." He looked up, a glint in his eye, and Mello knew this was a matter that concerned him and him alone. "Y'know what happened down in Tijuana last night?"

Mello shifted his weight. Rod was staring at him steadily, the line of his lips tight.

"No," Mello responded, his voice even, crossing his arms. "What happened?"

Rod crossed his leg over his knee, replacing his glass on the table in front of him. "Apparently there was a little problem with Paulo," he started. "He got pinched in Tijuana for a few girls he brought over the border in '07. Pedoro and Jose ran before the cops got there, but everything else got tanked."

Mello quirked a brow, slipping a hand into his pocket for a bar of chocolate. "What are we looking at?"

"A whole shipment."

"And that is?

"200K of dope." Rod sat back, tilting his head just a fraction, his words tight through his teeth. "Now, how the _fuck _could that even happen?"

Mello didn't know if he wanted an answer or a name. He peeled the chocolate wrapper back, crinkling it with his glove, and snapped a piece to hold between his teeth before he responded.

"They must have been building a case on him," he responded, impassive and objective. "Kira looks unkindly upon traffickers."

"For some whores from a few years ago?" Rod chuckled once, unkindly, and shook his head. "I don't think so."

A name, then. Mello leaned against the doorway, keeping his expression neutral. "It doesn't matter. We'll move ahead."

"It doesn't matter?" Rod echoed, almost overlapping with his statement, standing up from the couch. "Paulo's one of our only big men left. Without him, we're out."

The top of Rod's head nearly scraped the ceiling, and as he walked in front of Mello, he almost completely blocked the firelight. Mello remained steady, moving only his eyes to meet his gaze.

"We can find someone else," Mello said, unwavering. "In the meantime, 200K is just a drop in the ocean with our funds from Hoope."

Rod tilted his head. His words were heavy in his mouth as he spoke.

"We lose our most important man for cash, Mello."

Mello slipped out from between the door and Rod's towering presence, kicking his feet against the floorboards as he stood closer to the flames. Rod was grappling blindly for a scapegoat.

"And we have bigger fish to fry," Mello said languidly, turning back to face Rod, whose eyes were still focused onto him closely. "We have the most powerful notebook in the world. What can 200K do for us, Rod? It's one shipment."

Rod didn't respond immediately. The silence hung in the air heavily between them, the orange flames flickering against Rod's skin, shifting the shadows on his face like rippling water. His mouth was open, and Mello stared at him, lifting the corners of his mouth as an open-ended business proposal.

He refused to be scapegoated.

"Yeah, you're right," Rod responded, finally. The taut air between them slackened. "Just one shipment."

"As long as our men are fine from the feds, it isn't our concern," Mello continued. He closed the distance between the two of them, looking straight up at Rod now, meeting his eyes before they could dart away. "Paulo is nothing but a friend of ours, but now, he's a stranger."

"Gotta be careful from now on," Rod agreed, stepping out of the way between Mello and the front door. He grinned suddenly as Mello slid past him, his sharklike teeth glinting gold. "Don't we?"

Mello nodded, squaring his shoulders. "We do, Rod. We can't afford to lose any more men."

* * *

Matt sat in front of the TV screen, his hands tight over his PSP, his cigarette burning too fast. He was half a balloon down, and his head was starting to hurt again, which meant that he was starting to get dry. His next hit wouldn't be for another two hours if he wanted to last until Monday.

Mello was due back any minute.

Matt gripped the plastic in his hands, wrestling with it, feeling it slip around with his palm sweat as he played the race and listened to the screams from his TV. They were playing horror reruns all day, and Matt hated horror movies, but there was nothing else on. Leatherface was running around with a slasher knife, his garnet red Camaro SS '69 skidding into first place on his PSP, and Matt had a tissue box ready for when the sniffles started.

He didn't want a confrontation. If he had it his way, he wouldn't have to see Mello at all; he'd skip town until the whole thing blew over.

His cigarette ash finally broke off and spilled all over his lap. He cursed, pausing the race to brush off his jeans, smearing grey dust all over the denim in the progress.

Fuck it. He ground the butt into the ashtray, lit another one. Game resumed. Beep boop. He was in third place.

He stomped on the gas pedal and drifted, and when he passed second, he pressed two fingers against his hairline out of masochistic curiosity. Mello might have given him a concussion, but Matt wasn't eager to find out. He rubbed at the spot, springing tears into his eyes as if it'd make him focus on something other than how slow the clock was ticking, or how the graphics on Gran Turismo made him feel nauseous when he was coming down.

He burst through the finish line and started a new game, tapping the ash out mechanically this time.

The door jiggled behind him just as the countdown blasted out of his PSP, and Mello was through the door by the time his car was moving again. Matt kept his head down and his hands back at his PSP, like this wasn't at all awkward and nothing was amiss, nudging the trackpad of the main screen of the laptop in front of him hastily to jog it back to life.

Mello ignored him, breezing past look at the monitors, and then picked up the blue duotang from the coffee table. Matt's notes. Crackhead Kal was handcuffed and stayed mostly in his room unless called out by Mello. Big Guy Rod spent hours at a time sitting on his own, concocting some plan in his shiny head and making lots of phone calls.

Mello was leafing through the typed up documents, his expression neutral, and Matt looked back down, bumping tires with first place, the number on his screen flickering between 1 and 2.

Were they going to talk about it?

Or were they just going to pretend nothing happened?

Matt's head was thrumming in a way that made him want to press at it again, but he stopped himself from doing anything that might allude to the fight the other night. Mello's gun was at his waist, a little bump like a hunchback underneath his coat. A woman screamed on the television, and Mello snapped his head up to look and then walked over to shut it off.

"I was watching that," Matt mumbled.

"No, you weren't." Mello sauntered back, the duotang open in his hands. "Snydar hasn't made any suspicious actions?"

"No, not really."

"And Rod?"

Matt hummed. "He's been on his own a lot. Not a lot of girls by his side recently."

Mello slammed the duotang shut, slapping it back onto the coffee table before falling quiet. Matt immediately sensed the weird and heavy feeling of being stared at and glanced up to see Mello boring holes into his head.

"What?"

"You're not sober."

Fuck. Well, it was just a matter of time. Matt looked away, settling back onto his game, spotlit and guilty.

There was silence for a long moment, but he still felt Mello's eyes on him like an oven roasting his turkey ass. He was trying to focus on the race, on staying first place, but he heard Mello's sharp footsteps on the ground in front of him like slow and angry hooves.

"I'm halving your pay," Mello said, his voice so clinical it had the color and depth of a surgical table.

Matt had to stop himself from reacting. It was never about the money, but that was still low. "'Kay, whatever."

"Junkies are worth less in the mob."

Matt raised his eyebrows. That hit landed. "Okay, man. Yeah. I get it."

"Do you, Matt?" Matt was almost expecting the return of the gun at his throbbing hairline, but he kept his eyes steady, and Mello's arms stayed mercifully at his sides. "Do you get what it means? Doing your job?"

"Yeah," Matt replied, eyes unmoving. "I haven't fucked up anything massive, so chill out."

Mello stopped right in front of him, sharp-toed boots to his Demonia ripoffs. "That's how I need it to be," he said, sternly. Matt felt an emotion he hadn't felt in a while bubbling up in his chest at the pseudo-authority, the condescension.

Anger, they called it.

"Y'know," Matt said, before he could even stop it from coming out of his mouth, before he could even save his ass. "You really didn't need to take my Percs."

Mello shot back quickly, armed already. "You don't need both heroin and Percocet."

Matt huffed, wondering what the hell Mello even know about what he needed. "Yeah, but Percs sure helped with doing my job and whatnot." And then, "This is my apartment. I deserve some privacy too, you know."

"You're going to tell me what you deserve?" Mello snapped, and Matt frowned at how low Mello was stooping, although he knew he was never one to stay above the metaphorical belt.

"You're in my apartment," Matt reasoned. "Don't you have any common courtesy?"

"You work for me, Matt. I don't owe you anything." Mello's arms disappeared from his peripheral vision, and Matt glanced up hastily, bracing himself for the barrel again, only to see him crossing it over his chest. His expression was neutral.

Somehow, that just made things worse.

"Just don't stick your head into my shit," Matt said, with as much authority as he could manage. "That's all I ask."

Mello made a 'hmph' noise that meant neither yes nor no and walked away, zipping the conversation shut like a closed backpack full of topics to avoid, and the fight was over before it properly began. He was back at the laptops as if talking to him at all was a waste of time, picking up one of Matt's hard drives on the coffee table.

"I want a copy of the system so I can clone it onto my laptop." Mello held the hard drive out to Matt in his palm, a hand on his hip. "Can you do that?"

Matt glared through his hair, feeling like he'd lost anyway. "Okay," he mumbled, snatching the hard drive with his less-occupied hand and throwing it onto the couch beside him.

"I'll be in here as little as possible from now on."

Matt shook his head to himself. "Why the fuck didn't you just kill me, then?" he mumbled.

There wasn't a response, but he heard Mello pacing around again, putting things down, picking things up. Matt ignored him. He was coasting on in first place, Mello was being really goddamned mean for no reason, and he was tired of it. He hadn't felt anger like that in a while, but Mello had some sort of gift, pulling the worst out of Matt.

He'd almost forgotten he'd asked the question — it was half-rhetorical anyway — when Mello reappeared by the front door, his hand on the knob. He'd stood still for long enough that Matt had no choice but to glance up, to see what the hell was going to greet him on the other side.

Mello was staring at him, cold as ice.

"You still have some use left over," Mello said, and a new wave of anger washed over Matt as he finally decided to pause the game.

"Hey, what the fuck does that—"

The door opened and shut, and Mello was gone, leaving Matt alone in his apartment to let what Mello had said sink into his bones. Matt unpaused and squinted at the screen, clenching the cigarette between his teeth as he flipped the statement over and over in his head.

So Mello wanted to treat him like a lackey from now on, disposing him the minute he was done with him. Fine. He was an asshole, timing his retorts like atom bombs, slinking away before he faced the full consequences. Matt was getting about heated enough to chase him down the apartment stairs, to finish what they'd started, when the ash on his cigarette folded again, this time onto his PSP, and he swore and dumped it onto the floor, shaking his game.

He'd forgotten to pause, and when his screen was clean, he was in last place.

Fuck it. Time to get high again. He deserved that much.

* * *

Matt was nothing but a distraction; a junkie mere days away from withdrawal's door. Mello knew that his supply couldn't last longer than next week, and he'd made the calls to make sure he won't get any more for at least another month.

His situation with the hacker was at a stalemate — but he would have him where he needed him soon. Sober and scared straight, like any of his other drug-addicted goons who worked with him and valued their lives.

Once he closed the Kira case, he'd let him go. No invitation for the Sabbath. Mello was fully intent on enjoying that on his own.

He mounted his bike in Matt's driveway and slid on his sunglasses to shield him from the glittering sun. Even though Mello was no stranger to fights, Matt's indignant defensiveness of his habit settled like a heavy blanket over his mood.

He gripped his handlebars tightly, his joints and nerves pulled taut.

There were plenty of things driving a steel beam down the length of his spine that accounted for his irritability, though. Rod was watching him all-too-closely, and he was waiting with bated breath for Snydar to reestablish contact with his puppet master. He didn't know when it would be, but he was creeping closer to his showdown with Kira. He knew that the Saudis weren't the last time he was going to be making contact.

Mello was halfway downtown when he'd made a call to Jamie again, easing into a curb and parking on a smaller residential road. The cars were scarce, and he was afforded at least some privacy here. The boy's voice was easy on the other end; a welcome contrast to his mood when he picked up the phone. "Jamie here."

"Meet me at the hotel in an hour," Mello responded immediately, eyeing the cars as they trailed past him. "I'll be in Room 391."

"M?" There was a constricted, dry laugh in the speaker. "Two times in two days? Something wrong?"

Mello squinted, kicking his leg against the footrest. The base offered no solace with his Don's watchful eyes, and the junkie's apartment was little more than ground zero. Where else was he to go?

"Just some tension."

"Are we gonna do gunplay again today, Boss?" Jamie asked, almost innocently.

Mello scowled. "It'll be quick."

He didn't listen to Jamie's reply, flipping his cellphone shut and tucking it into his jacket, revving his engine back to life underneath him. He was strapping the helmet back onto his head when he glanced at his rear view mirror and noticed an old Triumph bike in the distance, leaning against a streetlight. Its driver was on his cellphone, a white stripe over his helmet, and Mello kept his eye trained on his unmoving figure as he leaned into riding position.

He'd seen that same bike across from Matt's apartment. He hardly ever saw any Thunderbirds in the suburbs.

The man was still on the phone as he tore out of the neighborhood. It was most likely a coincidence, but Mello kept his eyes glued to his rear view mirror until the bike was out of sight.

* * *

The sun had just begun to set dutifully, painting the streets below them the color of mud. Mello had an hour left before he had to get back to the base. They had tomorrow's judgments to look over, and Rod still hadn't decided what he wanted to do with Eddie's body. There were still administrative issues to settle with regards to Hoope's money. He needed to find places to run it through, which meant getting in touch with Rod's associates...

He sat on the rumpled bedspread, lacing up his pants as he looked out the window. He unwrapped a chocolate bar and kept it between his teeth as he unearthed his vest from the bedsheets, shrugging it on. He zipped it to his neck, pulling the rosary out of his collar, and smoothed down the crinkles in the leather.

The view outside was unattractive. Pedestrians, buildings, and a wedge of the parking lot were the only things worth looking at from the third floor. Mello usually preferred a penthouse suite if he had the night to himself, but Pavone had always taught him to stay lower to the ground when he was on the job. Easy entrance, easy exit, he said.

The valet parking beneath him was mostly empty. A billboard just beside his window shaded a smattering of cars, and a motorcycle was nestled inside the shadow of the building.

Mello narrowed his eyes.

He could only see a fraction of the seat and the rear, but it looked like a Thunderbird. Black, shiny, nondescript in the shadows, almost hidden had he not known where to look.

The driver was nowhere to be seen.

Mello knew what a set-up looked like, and this was its poster child. He felt his heart catch in his chest for a suspended moment as he sprang up, opening the bedside table in one fluid movement. His Beretta sat on the Gideon Bible like jewels inside a display case, and he lifted it and stashed it at his waistband. He hadn't taken his gloves off. His jacket was by the coatrack at the front door. His boots were by the mini-fridge. He hadn't come with his dagger, but he had to make do.

He left only Jamie in the shower and the half-eaten chocolate on the bedside table, closing the door behind him silently.

The hallway outside was quiet — as it was when he'd entered, the red-and-gold carpet muffling the sound of his heels. The elevators were on the left of the hall. If he managed to locate the man in the parking lot, he'd need to corner him, move him somewhere more private.

He headed down the hallway towards the elevators, and rounded the corner to see a man waiting at the elevator doors with black hair, dressed in a tuxedo. Thick-rimmed glasses, and steel-toed shoes.

The floor button was not pressed. The man stood in front of the elevator, staring at the numbers over top, his hands joined. Easy access to a gun in his breast pocket, most likely.

He did not look familiar. He did not seem interested in Mello's whereabouts.

He was standing at the elevator doors so that he wouldn't be caught on camera.

Mello turned around, heading towards the fire exit immediately as he realized that this was not a set-up.

It was a fucking hit.

Mello didn't have his silencer on him. The hallways were a poor choice for an execution; fire exits offered much more space for him to move around, although the hotel was one of Rod's many establishments, which meant that being caught on tape was the least of his worries. He sped up, making enough noise that he knew he'd alerted his hunter, and sped up his steps as he rounded the corner towards the emergency stairwell.

He heard shuffling behind him. He was being followed — but he was sure the man wasn't about to open fire in the hallways. He'd had plenty of opportunity to kill him on the street already, which meant that he was looking for the perfect place to cap him.

When he made it to the stairwell, he broke out into a sprint. He was two flights of stairs above when the man reemerged from the swinging doors, pistol in his hand, his head darting back and forth around the identical white walls to find his target. He dashed towards the stairs, heading for the fourth floor.

Mello aimed between the bannisters just as they made eye contact, and shot. In the shoulder. Miss.

As he recoiled and stepped back, Mello shot again.

Between the eyes.

The man collapsed backwards, hitting the stairs with a thud louder than the gun's blast itself. The .22 caliber gun clattered out of the man's hand as he fell, the thick white paint behind him where the bullet landed in his brain flecked with red. A mess to clean. Mello followed the body as it rolled, frowning as it finally stopped its trajectory at the landing between two flights of stairs.

The blood pooled at the base of the steps, seeping into the grooves of the rubber nosing, and Mello stepped around it, careful not to get it on his clothing. He nudged the corpse onto his side with a foot, and bent down to peer at his face.

Young, inexperienced. The hit probably wasn't even worth much.

An amateur.

Someone was sending a warning, and Mello knew this modus operandi well enough that he knew exactly who it was. He let the corpse be, sprinting the rest of the way down the staircase toward the lobby. Killing was never something he enjoyed doing, but he was more thankful that the cleanup was none of his concern.

His clothes were untouched, save for a small smudge of blood on his boot, barely perceptible over the Italian leather. Mello walked briskly across the golden lobby, empty. The redheaded girl who regularly dealt with his bookings nodded at him as he approached, her demeanor unaffected as Mello stormed towards her.

"Good evening, Mr. Cruciani," she greeted cordially.

"Can you leave a message for 391?"

The girl nodded, smiling politely, her hand poised over a notepad. "Yes, sir, certainly."

Mello glanced back at the elevator doors as they dinged open, a family of four exiting, a little boy bouncing down the shining marble tiles towards the revolving door. "'Stay put and don't leave until tomorrow morning. I'll make it up to you next time.'"

She poised the pen over the notepad and looked up at him, her smile unwavering. "Anything else I should know about, sir?"

"The stairwell on the third floor."

She nodded and picked up the phone, a professional. Mello headed towards the exit immediately, sliding past the family towards the entrance. Reflected in the glass, the security guards listened in on their radios and headed to the staircase door without a moment's hesitation.

Mello pushed through outside to the darkening evening, gliding past the Thunderbird on his way to his bike.

He had to call off the hit.

The man had seen him at Matt's apartment.


	14. Chapter 14

Mello hadn't found it necessary to announce his arrival to Rod. When he entered the mansion doors, the man was sitting there as if he hadn't moved from the last time they'd met. A few other men were in the lounge, lazing about on the couches, talking about weapons.

Mello stared at the Don silently, enough for the rest of the men to glance over at him warily, dipping their heads in a brief nod at his presence. Rod stayed impassively still as he continued to talk, his face turned away from the door, and Mello swallowed, forced to speak up.

"Rod."

Rod's eyes snapped towards him, and then scanned his clothes. "Mello," he said, grinning widely. "Didn't notice you there."

Mello grit his teeth. "Let's talk in your office."

Rod raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Don't you want to sit down for a bit? Have a drink first, Boss."

"Now."

Rod shrugged broadly, clapping Pedoro on the back, making a show out of getting up. "Alright, fellas. You'll have to excuse me." He drank one last sip from his rocks glass and took his damned time shimmying out of the L-couches. When he walked past, he lifted a finger over his shoulder, beckoning Mello to follow him.

He was buying his time. Enjoying the performance. Mello knew of no other man who loved acting like a star like Rod did; only tonight, Mello was in no mood to play along.

They moved up the stairs, down the hallway to Rod's office space. It had been cleaned up considerably since he'd last been there: the boxes were unpacked and the paintings taken down, leaving long white rectangles on the wallpaper where they used to be. Mello waited as Rod moved behind his desk, heaving a sigh as he sunk into his chair, and slid his notebook from his waistband onto the table like an arms' deal.

When he settled into his seat, he looked up at Mello with feigned ignorance, the phony air of cordiality. "What brings ya here tonight, Boss?" he asked, folding his hands in front of him, over the leather cover of the Death Note.

"You don't need me to say it."

"We cuttin' the formalities already?"

"I'm not here for a drink, Rod." Mello crossed his arms, leaning against the gold-trimmed chair, and waited for Rod to fold. He didn't. "Was it you?"

Finally, Rod's face broke out into a wide, sleazy grin. A joke he couldn't help but tell, a child caught red-handed in the act. "Yeah. What do you think?"

"Why?"

"You really askin' me that, man?" Rod barked out a laugh, leaning back in his chair. "Come on. I knew Pavone trusted you a helluva lot over the years. And me, well, I always knew you got our best interests at heart..."

He trailed off, his grin fading. Mello ran his tongue along his teeth, narrowing his eyes as he waited for the blade to land.

"... but what the fuck happened in Tijuana, man?"

Mello refrained from reacting. He knew that Rod held grudges, but he'd already settled this. "Why would I know?" he replied icily.

"I think you know more than you're letting on, Mello." Rod shook his head, his eyes dark. "Stop fucking around."

Mello looked at him, steady. "I don't."

"Yeah?" Rod narrowed his eyes, staring Mello down with more challenge than he'd given him since they started working together. "I don't know what's goin' through your mind right now, sabotaging our drugs for a goddamned notebook... junkies don't got names. It's easy cash." Rod paused, staring harshly at him, before he continued mockingly, "What's the matter, Mello? You don't feel like making us money no more?"

"I'm making us plenty of money, Rod." Mello clenched his teeth, glancing down at the Death Note, reaching down to tap at it with a finger. "You send a hit on me — what's going to happen to the notebook?"

Rod brushed Mello's finger away. "Fuck the notebook," he snapped, and Mello held his finger tightly in the air, holding back the anger that flared in his chest at the dismissal. "Someone's gotta teach you a lesson, man. You're getting outta line."

So it was personal.

"The notebook is our most powerful weapon to date." Mello withdrew his hand and placed it back at the corner of the desk. "The last thing we need is the mafia to collapse at this stage in the game. The notebook is better than any goddamned junk."

"Yeah?" Rod shook his head again, a calculated smile worming onto his face. "Then how 'bout you tell me how the fuck the feds know 'bout Paulo?" He held up a hand, his thick fingers outstretched. "Only five men knew about the trafficking. You, me, Manny, Julio, Lepera." He held two fingers with his other hand, "Manny and Julio are dead. And I don't think Lepera gives a flying fuck what happens here down in New Mexico."

Mello held his breath as if it would hold onto his heart as well, ignoring the way it sunk to the pit of his stomach anyway. "Why the fuck would I squeal on an associate? What would that do for me?"

"You tell me, Mello."

"I think you're getting too comfortable right now, Rod," he said, slowly. "Sending out hits on your own men, dope over the notebook... we're more powerful than Pavone's ever been. You said that yourself." Mello placed both of his hands over Rod's desk, leaning in. "Why would you ruin that? For some fucking drugs?"

The question hit both of them. Rod leaned away from Mello's gaze, his expression falling towards anger.

"I don't like being treated for an idiot," he muttered, sneering.

Mello breathed through his teeth, clutching the edge of his desk. "And I don't like your attitude, Rod," he hissed. Rod's eyes fell towards the notebook before him, a vein in his neck sticking out from his skin, and Mello pulled back, standing straight.

He needed to call it off. The drugs were secondary.

"We'll find a new man for the road," he said, smoothing out the edges from his tone. "If you need 200K, I'll make up for the damages. It's nothing."

Rod didn't respond, his eyes still downcast, his jaw still clenched.

"Call off the hit," Mello continued, when he knew Rod had nothing else to say.

"Fine," Rod said, quickly, but he opened his eyes with a new fire as he added, "But if the connection is cut, Mello, I'm not playing any fucking games. Consider this a warning."

Mello stayed silent, crossing his arms and leaning away. So he'd gone overboard.

He just needed to stay away from Matt's apartment for a few days.

* * *

It was Monday, and Matt was out.

Out like a light. Out like Adam Lambert.

Out of H.

He woke up with the distinct, now familiar feeling of being dry: his head was pounding, his eyes were watering, and he was exhausted, barely slept all night. The past two hits from the last balloon were complete garbage — didn't do shit for him except keep him from killing himself with the WD. Which, well, this was cutting it much too close for comfort, but he was feeling fine, all things considered, because it was Monday.

Monday morning. Bright and early, rise and shine.

Today was Monday, and Monday was the day that heroin was back on the market. Barely awake and still wrapped up in his comforter, mouth stale and head throbbing, he leaned over and grabbed his phone. Andre didn't like him calling after midnight — he'd learned his lesson on Saturday, when he was getting antsy about his dwindling stash — but he sat on his hands like a good boy and waited until today before he took the plunge.

The dial tone was a short affair, and the call went through pretty quickly, which was nice. When he heard Andre's voice on the other end, he felt his entire body lighten — for any plug to be able to pick up the phone this quickly was a positive sign. Matt had anticipated it, but now he knew: the crisis was going to be averted, and he was going to be a happy boy by tonight.

Monday, god, he loved Mondays.

"Hey dude, hola, it's Monday," Matt greeted, sunnily in a groggy voice. "You got some in today?"

"No, gringo."

Matt nodded. "Alright, goo—wait, what?"

"I don't got nothin'," Andre replied.

Matt felt his world slowing down. A little nugget of panic flared inside of his chest, growing bigger as the consequences of being out of junk settled into his skin. Being out of heroin for a day or two and being out of heroin for an undetermined amount of time were two very, very different things.

"Seriously?" was the only thing he managed to say.

"Yeah, man. No chiva."

"Still?" was the only other thing.

"Yeah, man."

This was no bueno as hell, and he was quickly going into panic mode. Matt sat up, bunching his blankets around his knees, running his hand through his hair and palming his bruise as some sort of solace, like everything was going wrong way too fast. He felt like he was being told he had cancer — except, well, cancer would feel better than this. "But why? It's Monday, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Sorry. I got nothin'."

"You're fucking with me, man," Matt said, sliding his palm down to his browbone, pinching his nosebridge, ignoring how fast his heart was pounding. "You're fucking with me. It's not funny."

Andre sounded serious when he replied, "No, gringo. I'm not."

Matt let out something between a growl and a wail and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyelids. "Then why'd you say Monday?" he moaned, desperately, as if Andre had personally been put onto earth to ruin the first day of the week for him. Matt'd tapered off all that shitty junk, sacrificed some good highs in the process, and now — he was out. The cold, hard truth.

Andre didn't respond for a long moment, and if Matt had any shame leftover, he'd be embarrassed. But he didn't, so he continued to whine. "You've gotta got some more, man," he pleaded. "This isn't like you. You don't do this kinda shit."

"Look, gringo," Andre's voice crackled, and Matt squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing his scalp ferociously like it was going to change anything. "I'm gonna tell ya straight. There ain't any caballo in all of Cali right now."

"No way," Matt mumbled, gripping onto his hair.

"Yeah way, gringo. There's one mob that gets it in, and they got busted last week."

"No way," Matt repeated, shaking his head. "No way, no way."

"No one else in Cali has it, man. No hay nadie. No one."

Matt felt like he was the butt of a very mean, very cruel joke. He was on the Truman Show, and someone on the other side of the TV screen was having a ball at his demise. "You don't have to say shit like that," he murmured. "Just 'cuz you don't have it…"

"No, gringo," Andre said, slowly like he was talking to an idiot child. "No podermos hacer nada."

"What the fuck do you mean? I'm out, man. I'm out."

Andre sighed. "I'm out too, gringo."

"No, man, stop kidding around. Please, man. C'mon—"

"I. Don't. Got. Nothin'. I'll call you when I got it. I don't got shit else." And then the phone went dead, and Matt couldn't stop the desperate groan that burst out of his throat like it was being whinged out of there by crowbar, throwing his phone onto the floor with reckless abandon.

Fuck, Monday was supposed to be his holy day. He was supposed to be high and coasting by the time this was all over and done, like a bad nightmare that he woke up from. This was not how today was supposed to go.

He was not at all prepared to get through this.

How the fuck was he going to go dry? He'd never had to go through withdrawal in his life; Andre always had him covered, and California had never had a draught, even in the New Age. Shit like this just wasn't supposed to happen. He had no idea how he was going to get through the next few days when he had nothing at all to get him through it. No Percs, no emergency stash to keep him afloat.

Zero. Zip. Nada. Zilch.

Nothing.

He rolled off his mattress, blankets still wrapped around him like a cape, and crawled towards an old shoe box where he remembered he's stashed his pot. It was in one of his old sneakers, he was pretty sure — he'd done that to mask the smell. Andre was always whinging on and on about that goddamned ganja, and well, even ganja was starting to sound good at this point, even if he hadn't properly done it in a while.

He turned his room upside down and right side up again and it still wasn't anywhere to be found, which meant that Mello had probably taken care of it during the raid.

Fuck.

Matt sat in the middle of his room, ass on the hardwood, looking around his apartment for anything at all that could curb the pains. He didn't have alcohol — tequila was his thing back in Vegas, and Amy liked her mojitos so he'd always been equipped in Phoenix, but ever since the narcotics started, he'd been liquor-free. He considered going down to the boozer, but the thought of heading out and interacting with the world made him lightheaded. He'd kept the heroin balloons just in case, but he'd scraped the latex over the weekend to milk every drop when he shot up, so there was no leftover goodies, no gunk on the spoon, no residue in the rig to delay the suffering.

Matt breathed in, breathed out, breathed in, breathed out again, and then sniffled. They said that the anticipation of the WD was worse than the WD itself, but he already felt like shit. He'd been exhausted all morning, and he knew that was just the genesis of it all.

He yawned. He wiped at his snot with the back of his head, sniffling. He felt his eyes water almost immediately afterwards, and then he squeezed his eyelids shut, running warm tears down his cheeks that he didn't bother to wipe.

It was like he was witnessing his zombie transformation as it was happening. He recognized what his body went through every time he did this to himself — but he'd never let it get farther than just the sniffles, the yawns, the jerks.

But this time it was going to be different.

This time, he was going to die.

Or that was what it felt like, anyway. He was looking death in the face, slowly approaching it, waiting for it to suck him into the black hole of WD. It was terrifying. Matt wanted out.

Or he could find something to keep his mind off of it, which made him get off his ass and onto his cold feet. He hobbled over to the living room where the lights were off and so were his socks and shoes, and descended upon his video game crate, blanket-cape in tow, and started to rummage through it.

He was mad at Ass Creed for not keeping his secrets, so he threw that box into the bottom of the crate to punish it. He was in the mood for a shooter, preferably something he could get lost in for hours, something he'd stare at and the sun would set and then he'd realize that he'd forgotten to eat all day. He needed some premium, A-grade, high quality distraction, and he wanted something that he could replay in its entirety, something that could potentially let him forget that he was fighting demons way bigger than himself right now.

He wiped at his nose with the corner of his blanket, before the snot dribbled down into the crate.

There. He found it. He was going to replay all of the Splinter Cell games on PS2. It'd been a while since he'd played it, anyway. Matt rubbed his nose and hoped Tom Clancy was enough to tide him over for the worst of it, popping open the plastic box with a nice little snap. The sleeve inside was missing from when he'd lent his friends it back in London. The CD was scratched up from how often he'd played it when he was younger.

The minute the opening screen started, Matt yawned and glanced at the clock on his DVD player. 9:32 AM. Five hours since his last shot.

It was going to be a long few fucking days.

* * *

Mello didn't dare test his luck.

He hadn't left the base since the day of the hit, and he waited two more days before he even thought to exit the mansion's vicinity. Rod was out for the night, and the rest of the men were gone.

For the first time in years, Mello felt like he had to leave without getting caught.

The drive back was quiet, but Mello made sure to take several detours regardless. Nobody followed him for longer than a few minutes on the interstate, but he memorized every license plate that trailed behind him anyway.

It had taken forty minutes before he was in Matt's neighborhood, in the driveway again, the streets quiet in the evening. He unmounted, turning off the engine and stepping onto the gravel silently.

He wasn't eager to find out how Matt was faring in the days he'd kept himself away. He assumed the worst would greet him as he eyed the dark windows and started his way upstairs, pulling his jacket closer towards himself in the cool breeze.

Mello braced himself for the stench of decay, heavy and sweet enough that it seeped through the screen door as he pulled it open. He expected Matt's door lock to engage immediately, a sign of forced entry. He expected the air in his apartment to be stale, thick with decomposition, as he stepped into a puddle of human filth, squelching the maggots underneath his boot.

He expected to see Matt's bloated face, shock still visible in his bulging eyes. It would be impossible to tell if the humid scent of death or the tangy scent of blood was stronger on the hardwood.

Instead, when he opened the door, the hardwood was clean and untouched. The apartment, dark and empty. The television was on, and a drop-down menu filled the screen, a floating "PAUSED" hovering over the options. The game's suspenseful music filled the flat, looping once it faded, and Mello stood by the doorway, scanning the vicinity.

No bodies.

Living or dead.

Mello frowned, shutting the door behind him. He stepped slowly over the wires, eyeing every corner carefully. The laptops were off. A game controller had been tossed lazily on the ground beside a white pillow that had come from Matt's room, a dent in the cotton. There was a half-empty bag of chips littered an arms' reach away, a bowl of cereal and milk on the coffee table. Matt's ashtray was overflowing, and he had decided to replace it with a water bottle instead of emptying it out.

It looked lived-in, but Matt was nowhere to be seen. Mello glanced up, noticing finally that the door to his bedroom wasn't closed. It had been left slightly ajar, but the lights inside were off.

Sleeping, perhaps. Or dead.

Mello's frown deepened as he walked towards it slowly, muting his footsteps as much as he could. He pushed the door open wider, and as he did, he felt the temperature around him rise.

The room smelled like sickness and sweat, and the air was muggy. Just to the left, there was the sound of heavy, deep breathing, labored, almost struggling.

It was difficult to see. The room was lit up only by the sepia warmth of the street behind the Venetian blinds, and the glow of the tv screen that leaked through the crack of the door. Mello's large and lopsided shadow fell over the bedspread, over the shivering lump underneath the thin comforter. Pale legs and a mop of messy brown hair, head down.

There he was. Alive, but barely.

"Matt," Mello said, curt. "Get up."

"Fuck," the lump swore, shifting against Mello's shadow, its voice heavy and thick. "Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

Mello blinked, furrowing his brows and waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. Matt was moving underneath the thin sheets like a rat digested in the belly of a snake, trying to find a way out of the trap he'd ensnared himself in, and it dawned belatedly on Mello that this wasn't anything ordinary.

This was withdrawal.

Opiate withdrawal was something Mello wasn't intimately acquainted with, but it was a sight he knew. It was infamously torturous, long, and painful. Matt finally found his way out of the sheets, throwing it to his shoulders, his fingers caked with blood from his bitten cuticles, his bony, bare back glittering with yellow sweat.

Mello gripped onto the doorknob behind him as Matt made a noise that resembled a dry heave, a mangled gasp. Everything Mello had wanted to say died on his tongue, leaving only astonishment in its wake.

"Oh fuck," Matt swore again, moving his face from the mattress towards the door. His eyes were shining, as if streaked with tears, caught in the army green glow of the television screen outside. "Oh god, Mello. Fuck. Fuck, help me."

Mello didn't move. His heart was somewhere in his intestinal walls. He kept his voice steady as he repeated the word, "Help?"

"You gotta help me," Matt croaked, pushing himself off the low mattress. "Please."

"I can't," Mello found himself saying, trying to control his breaths.

"No, you can." Matt shifted to the edge of the mattress, on his knees, the blankets wrapped around him like a hood. His shoulders were shivering, his eyes bright and desperate. "You can, Mello. Please.

Mello knew he couldn't, but the question left his mouth anyway. "How?"

"Give it back to me," Matt said, shifting again, so close to the edge that his knees were going to hit the hardwood. "Give it to me. Give it back. I know you have it."

Mello shook his head.

"C'mon," Matt muttered, his words as warm as his voice felt, as hot as the room felt. "Yes you do. You have it. Give it to me."

Mello shook his head again. "No."

"Give it back to me, please." Matt closed his eyes, bowing his head. "Please, god, give it to me. I promise I'll be good. I need it. Please, give it back."

Mello had had something to say before he entered — an accusation, perhaps, or a warning. He'd come into the room armed and loaded, poised to fire, holding onto his parasitic desire like a prisoner of war until he left Matt's sight. He had things to do before getting back to the base. There was so much to do.

He wasn't expecting to find Matt writhing around in his bed, begging; this much had allowed his mind to empty, all of his thoughts some mirage he failed to grasp. All he could hear was the pounding of his chest, and Matt's slow, heavy breaths. The warmth of his voice, dipping to an octave he'd never heard before.

The only words that floated into Mello's conscious fell off his tongue. "You'll be good...?"

"I'll be good," Matt responded eagerly, immediately, and Mello let out an exhale before he could hold it back inside his lungs. "I'll be good, so please, give it back. I need it. I'll die without it."

Mello could see everything now: the golden glow of Matt's jaw, the shadow beneath his Adam's apple, his hair, messy and falling over his face. His nose was rubbed raw, and his eyes were wet, truly wet, the moist trails of sweat and mucus and tears marking his skin like footsteps in the sand.

Mello leaned towards it, walking closer to the mattress. Matt's eyes followed the action headily, his head moving along like a dog waiting for its master. He was breathing heavily. So was Mello.

Their breaths fell in sync, the only sounds in the room audible over the muffled music in the living room.

"It hurts," Matt muttered when Mello was close enough, pleading with him like he was a child again. Telling his mother about his headache, like she could take it all away. "It hurts so bad."

"I know," Mello responded, quietly. Their bodies were close. Matt's head was at his chest, and he wondered if he could hear his heart beat, thumping aggressively against his ribcage.

"It hurts," Matt whined again, something primal leaking messily into his voice like blood in a traffic accident. Mello inhaled shakily. "It hurts. I need it. Please, give me it. I'll die."

"You won't die," Mello whispered back, and his hand drew itself over Matt's hair, settling on top of his head. Matt's body temperature was warm enough to feel through his glove. Matt was still shaking. Mello combed his fingers through Matt's hair, marvelling at how he let him. "You don't need it."

"I'll die."

"You won't die."

"I need it. Give it to me."

Mello withdrew his hand, a punishment for both of them. "No."

"Please, Mello," Matt groaned, and Mello felt it rock through his bones, echoing in his skull. Through his hips, down to his knees. "I'll do anything. Please."

It was such a warm beg, such a beautiful noise that fell from Matt's heavy breaths, that Mello felt enraptured, lacing his fingers back into Matt's hair, using it as leverage to steady himself. His breath caught in his throat at how Matt's head leaned into his palm. Matt moved into it, his eyelids fluttering closed again, the veins in his thin eyelids visible even in the dim, cloudy streetlights.

"Please," Matt mouthed, inaudible. Mello wouldn't have known he had spoken if he didn't see his lips part, the glint of his teeth as he hissed the plea. "Please, Mello."

"What will you do?"

"Anything." Matt didn't make a noise, a slip of his tongue against his front teeth. "Please."

Mello trailed his hand through his hair, watching as Matt tilted his head to allow him, brushing his fingers against Matt's cheek. His knuckles moved the thin strands of hair away from Matt's eyes, and he cupped his hand against Matt's face, holding it up to his gaze.

He couldn't understand what he was doing. What his body was doing, what his hands were doing. His mind was empty. All that he could think of was Matt's breaths, falling against the leather of his hand; Matt's eyes, bright and green, staring at him with intoxication and clarity. It felt like he saw through him for once. The room was swirling, and Mello had Matt's face in his hand like a prized skull. Matt's eyes were wide and shining. His lips were parted, the darkness of his mouth an abyss of secrets and desires.

He didn't expect Matt to move. When Matt's eyelids fluttered shut, Mello found himself missing the green. Matt twisted his head to the side, the shadow of his jaw and the curve of his profile all Mello could see for a tantalizing moment, before his mouth opened, wrapping itself around Mello's thumb. Mello drew a breath at the contact, at the warmth that ravaged his body from his fingers to his head, his groin, his knees.

He felt something soft resting at the tip of his finger. Matt's tongue. The sharp, light pressure of Matt's teeth, hooked around the base like a bear-trap. The tightness around the leather, Matt's cheeks hollowing as he sucked gently. Matt's eyelashes, the shadow of them against the bridge of his nose from the light outside. The wet sounds of Matt's saliva. The warmth of Matt's mouth.

He'd do anything for his drug, he said.

How did he know this was what Mello wanted the most?

Heat blazed through him, curling at the pit of his stomach, shooting through his limbs like lightning. He exhaled shakily, and the reality of the moment crashed over him, seeing his finger inside Matt's mouth as if for the first time.

Matt knew what Mello wanted, and he was using his knowledge to get his drug.

Like the junkie he was, prostituting himself for a lick of heroin.

Mello shook himself free, the wet pop as he separated from Matt's mouth an afterthought that settled deep into his gut. He glanced down at his glove instinctively, and felt his shoulders drop as he saw Matt's spit shining against the leather, thick and viscous, warm and salty, a small bubble at the tip. He had to mobilize every scrap of self restraint to stop himself from licking it off — to feel Matt's saliva on his tongue, to taste Matt's fluids, the warmth of Matt's mouth —

Matt was looking at him, eyes curious and hurt. He was still on his knees, his blankets falling from his shoulders to reveal his pale, damp skin. "Mello," he croaked. He'd done his part, and now it was time for payment. "Give me my heroin back."

Mello shook his head vehemently, curling his hands into fists. Matt's saliva, transferring onto his knuckles like a baptism of his hand. Matt knew too much. He needed to leave. "No."

"Mello," Matt repeated, his voice raising wildly. "Mello, I need my fucking heroin."

"You piece of shit junkie," Mello spat, his heart flaring in his chest. Matt knew so much. Matt knew everything. Matt had known everything all along, and now he'd tasted Mello's desire in his mouth, he'd seen it firsthand. It was over. "You pathetic junkie."

He had to leave.

It pained him to stay, and it pained him even more to turn his body towards the half-closed door of the bedroom. He caught sight of the both of them in his peripheral vision — a mirror to the right, Matt's mop of dark hair moving like he was shaking his head — but Mello kept moving, pulling the door open, slamming it against the wall, hearing the video game music blasting in the living room, the green glow of the screen, the floorboards as it held his secrets, the wires as he stepped over them like infrared lasers, through his door, his screen door, his hallway, the stairs leading down to the front.

Matt was dangerous. Mello hadn't taken a single breath until he found himself outside, in the cool Los Angeles air, his bike glinting against the orange streetlights. The same streetlights that had glowed off of Matt's…

Mello made for his bike like it was a life raft. He gripped the handle as he mounted it, feeling the cool sheen of sweat on the back of his neck and the damp tightness of his pants as he leaned into riding position, eager to leave. His engine roared in the quiet of the night, and he focused on how loud it was, louder than every thought he had.

The parasite had invaded his brain completely — he was beyond saving. Matt knew what lay beneath the floorboards of Mello's skin, what secret he'd been harboring for the years they knew one another, and the years they spent apart.

Matt knew Mello wanted him, and now, Mello could do little else but _leave _.

Fuck, Mello hated junkies.

* * *

thank you for reading. part 2 comes out in november.


	15. Chapter 15

.

* * *

**PART TWO. **

**NEW YORK**

Mello fell. Farther and farther into the earth's crust, deep into its gummy core. The air smelled like ash as it blew through his hair.

He never thought that it would take so long to fall from grace.

_Thud._

His spine collided against the ground, electricity crackling in the back of his neck. He couldn't move. The sun was shining in the middle of the night, swivelling around the sky like an interrogation light. His head must have been bleeding.

He could die like this.

He was on the second floor, where the walls were lined with few explosives and the surveillance screens were empty. The police sirens were loud, gunning down the roads outside. There was someone singing hymns and praying to God over the sound of ruin.

That was himself. Telling him that he could die like this tonight.

He inhaled sharply, blood shooting down his veins. His breath was loud and mechanical through the gasmask. The cops were coming, and the NPA had guns. He'd heard his name spoken for the first time in a decade.

God, he could die like this.

The sirens grew in intensity, burrowing between his skull and his scalp. He gripped the surface below him and realized that his fingers could still move, and that he was lying on something soft.

He opened his eyes. He was looking at the marbling sky. A helicopter churned overhead, and something else was flying with it. A big black creature, winged and spiked, batlike as it flapped against the large moon.

It was an angel who had come to deliver him. It was time. His vision slipped. He was losing focus, losing vision, losing sight.

The angel's wings were loud in his ears, fluttering as it scraped the sky. The angel was waiting. It beckoned him to follow.

He didn't want to lose now. He didn't want to die yet.

He opened his eyes and tore his gasmask off of his face. The night air was cool on his skin. He could breathe again. He took a shuddering gasp, tasting ash clinging to his throat. Then he coughed. He kept coughing and coughing.

Rocks fell out of his mouth, knocking against his teeth and tongue. He wheezed, trying to keep his lungs from falling out too.

Another gasp. His legs were heavy, and his hands stung like they'd been skinned and burned, but he had to move. Somebody could find him. The wrong person could kill him.

He didn't want to die like this.

The black-winged angel above disappeared beneath the clouds, dimming like a fading star. A near-death hallucination, a hypoxic event. He couldn't keep staring at the sky. He had to move. He had to move.

He had to move or else he'd stop moving at all.

His arms were spread open. He lifted himself off of his shoulder, rocks falling out of his skin. It was cold. His shoulder felt wet. He kept pushing, rolling onto his side.

A mangled gasp tore from his throat. He'd burst through the amniotic sac at last.

He coughed spittle and dirt onto the grass blades by his face. He couldn't feel them against his skin at all. He kept pushing until gravity took pity on him. It flipped him onto his front, flat onto his belly. He took another heavy, shuddering breath.

Now he was alive. Now he had to crawl.

His body had landed halfway down a grassy plain, a gentle slope at the corner of the junk yard. He'd been tossed across the lot, away from the main road and the front entrance. He no longer saw buildings or people. Only a small ray of light in the near distance, glowing in the darkness, slicing down his optic nerve.

He squinted, his vision warbling.

It was a tunnel. It was a phonebooth. Somebody could save him now. As long as he remembered which numbers, he could leave this place.

He spread his arms out under him, a drowning dog threshing through dirt as he pulled himself down the hill. Behind him, something was breaking. Crashing and burning into the ground with fire and ash. Police sirens cried louder and louder and louder and louder in the night.

It was so fucking loud. He needed to get to the phonebooth.

He dragged himself farther down the hill, the weight of his body heavy on his chest. He must have broken something. Maybe a bone had stuck itself through his heart. He was wheezing and the spittle tasted like iron. But if he got to the phonebooth, he could make it out alive. He could make it out alive.

* * *

Shit sucked.

Seriously. Shit fucking blew. It'd been almost a week since Matt last shot you-know-what, and even though everybody always said that the withdrawal symptoms were the worst, Matt learned the hard way that everybody was fucking lying.

Six days, and shit still bombed. Six days and shit was absolutely not cash.

There was just no end in sight. His legs stopped twitching and he stopped having the shits, but fuck, he felt like God's punching bag, day in and day out. His body was too heavy, his brain was too loud. His joints felt like they needed to be greased, and fuck, there was nothing to _do_ all day.

Time passed really fucking slow when you were sober.

Honestly, Matt had to face it: life was fucking miserable without [REDACTED]. He didn't want to actually say the sacred word. Saying it meant thinking about it. Thinking about it meant craving it. Craving it meant knowing he couldn't get it.

Knowing he couldn't get it meant getting his gun to blow his brains out.

So he kept his mind busy, lying on a damp spot on the couch, face squished against the Cheeto-dusted seat cushion and his PSP clasped in his sweaty palms. There was no other sound in his apartment but the sound of video game music, no light in his living room except for the feeds on his laptops.

Matt was playing Tetris.

It'd been two days straight of several-hours-long binges. He wasn't even speedrunning the levels — he just was playing on Marathon, trying to beat his high score from two hours ago, focusing on the blocks so that he didn't have to think about how shitty his body felt. Whenever he fucked up and filled the screen, he pressed _Play Again_.

Matt didn't even like Tetris.

He hadn't moved from his position on the couch since this afternoon. Eaten nothing but a slice of pizza and some cornflake crumbs and only gotten up once in the past twelve hours to piss.

It was now almost midnight.

_Beep beep_. The Z-shaped block popped out, and Matt switched it out of hold, slotting the I-block into the gap in the middle.

_TETRIS!_

The blocks flashed away, leaving only small holes from previous fuck ups. He glanced at the time in the corner.

20:52. Not bad. Two minutes until his record.

_SINGLE!_

An L-block flashed, dangling in the middle of nowhere on the screen. Matt switched to the block from hold, and the previous Z-block replaced it.

He moved it towards its spot and accidentally rotated it too much, leaving another gaping hole.

Fuck. The same thing happened two lines later, and then four lines later. His screen looked like a block of swiss cheese.

He gave up, dropping the blocks and ending the game. Final time: 21:42.

Matt sighed, blinking away the colorful blocks in his vision, and glanced over at the computers strewn across the coffee table idly to check on the feeds.

Hm. The screen looked weird. Everything was white and grey, floating patterns that looked like a cloud of smoke with some firecrackers popping around the lounge screens.

Matt's eyes must have been fucked from all the Tetris. He pulled up his goggles, rubbing his eyes. When he replaced them, the screens were still the same.

Strange. Matt frowned, snaking his arm out lazily to unmute the feed.

_—pop-pop-pop-pop-pop_. _Boom. BOOM._

… Wait, what the fuck?

Matt pushed himself off of the couch slowly, putting his PSP down. The blood rushed from his head as he sat up, his vision corrupting in the corners with purples and greens, and he hunched over to stare at the screens closer, shaking his head to clear his vision.

The smoke cleared up and heavy boots stomped across the length of the video stream, revealing a mosaic of bodies lying like two parallel L-blocks on the floor.

Matt's jaw dropped.

Snydar and Rod. They were still like mannequins, their eyes glazed as they stared up at the ceiling lights.

Oh fuck. Oh no.

Matt leaned forward and switched tabs, scanning through the feeds. Mello was nowhere to be seen.

"Motherfucker," he grumbled, moving his head from side to side as he switched tabs rapidly. "Where the fuck are you?"

There were men in riot gear, running around from camera to camera, their pants swishing. They were yelling at each other in Japanese. _He's not here! _

It felt like Matt had abandoned Tetris for another video game entirely. A shooter. Mafia. DLC: Your Childhood Best Friend.

Matt caught a glimpse of yellow hair at the corner of the surveillance room feed and stopped. There he was. Hunched over the desk, peering up at the screens of the control room. A dead body lay by his feet, sprawled on the floor like an S-block.

The SWAT team was heading up towards him quickly. Mello was trapped.

"Fuck," Matt mumbled, tearing his eyes away from the screen to look for his cell phone. It was somewhere underneath his fucking notebooks. Somewhere underneath that old bowl of cereal, where he'd left his empty cigarette boxes—there.

He grabbed it and flipped it open, about to dial Mello's number, when he glanced up at the screen and saw that Mello was typing something on his own cell phone. On cue, his burner vibrated with a text animation message.

Shittily encoded: _Raid_.

"No shit," Matt said, clapping it shut and looking back up at the laptop screen. The SWAT team had the surveillance room cornered. Mello whipped his head around, holding something in his hand. Something black and heavy, looking like a pipe bomb.

Matt's eyes widened.

Fuck. The bomb remote that Matt had rigged last month. The crazy bastard was going to blow his fucking way out of the base.

"Oh, fuck," Matt breathed. Mello had told him before: in urgent situations, like raids and accidents, Matt was his back-up. Matt was the emergency contact, the dude who cleaned up the mess.

God, Matt didn't think it'd _actually_ happen.

Matt lifted himself off the couch, pacing around his living room. He grabbed his gun, his vest, his keys, his cigarettes. He slid on his vest, pushed his gun into his boot, pocketed the keys, lipped a cig, and left.

He ran down the stairs without catching his breath.

He really didn't think his Friday night would end up like this.

He was in his garage and sitting in his car before he knew it. His hands were shaking over his steering wheel. A block fell in place like a ghost in the corner of his vision as he turned the key in the ignition.

The engine roared to life.

Matt jerked the gear and reversed, nearly rear-ending the cars parked in the opposite lane. Tires screeching, he peeled down the road.

It was late and the road was empty. Matt weaved between parked cars anyway. The Tetris theme song was stuck in his head, getting faster and faster as he sped, and he didn't remember when he lit his cigarette.

_Dunn-dada-dun-dada-dun..._

Matt was halfway over the Los Angeles River when it happened.

Black smoke burst into the clouds, an orange spotlight burning itself into the purple sky. The rumble hit him half a second later, interrupting his brain's BGM.

_Boom_.

There were people walking on the streets. College kids. They stared up at the sky and screamed, running westbound. Matt's car windows shook as shockwaves travelled across Soto Street Junction towards the other end in LA.

In the deafening silence, Matt could hear his own heart thumping in his chest.

Fuck, Matt really wasn't cut out for this. He really didn't know how the fuck to unfuck this one up.

Matt tossed his cigarette butt out onto the road through a crack of his window, gunning down the street. In the distance, sirens started swelling up and wailing in the night, _wee-woo_ing like a grieving widow.

_Dunn-dada-dun-dada-dun-dada-dun-dada-dun-dada-dun-dun dun dun dunnn..._

Matt's tires screeched into the lot.

The mansion was burning bright, a fire so vast that it made the sky almost look like day. The explosives had taken down most of the mansion, save for a back wall.

Matt took a breath, staring in horror, the flames flickering against the hood of the car. In his brain, the Tetris theme song sped up even more with his heartbeat.

_Dunndadadundada _the charred skeleton of the house looked _dundada _familiar, in a way that made Matt's heart ache and _dundadadun_ his lungs deflate. The smell of jerky wafted into his car, cloying and vile.

Mello was dead. Mello died. No more retries. No health packs. Mello was _dun-dada-_dead.

Matt bit his lip, his fingers grasping at the wheel desperately. He didn't know what the fuck to do. The cops were coming in. So were the firefighters. Their lights were flashing red-and-yellow, and the glowing reflective tape on their uniforms was catching his tail lights. He was at the heart of a fucking crime scene, and he needed to go, stat, but he was frozen. His limbs wouldn't move.

_Dundadadundadadundunn..._

He inhaled. Exhaled. Just like the counsellors used to tell him. The police cars _weewooed _behind him. He heard voices speaking over the radio, the fire crackling in the air outside.

_Dun, dun, dun, dunnnnnn _—

A wall collapsed into dust, puffing smoke.

Matt's mind went blank. His ears started ringing.

He had to leave.

Suddenly his burner started ringing from his back pocket, making him jump out of his skin. It vibrated viciously against his ass, buzzing against his leather upholstery. Matt fished the phone from his pocket, holding it by his mouth as he breathed out shakily. "Yeah?"

"Matt."

Matt's eyes widened. "Holy shit," he gasped. "You're alive."

"Where are you?"

"The..." Matt trailed off, looking around the burning base, searching for a shadow. A moving figure. Yellow hair. A head. Anything. "The base. Are you okay?"

"Go behind. Overpass."

"Huh?" Matt gripped the leather of his wheel, turning around. The cops were getting out of the cruiser. "The junkyard?"

"Yes, hurry."

Mello hung up, and Matt dropped his cell phone, switching gears.

His stomach was twisting in his torso, doing jumping jacks against his will. Mello was alive. Mello made it alive somehow. Matt knew the overpass was nearby, in an area that was fenced off, hard to get to unless he drove over the dirt road.

Matt backed up, past the cop cars, and left. His brain started singing again. No rest for the wicked.

_Dun-dada-dun-dada-dun-dada — _

He arrived at the aforementioned meeting place less than a minute later. There was nobody else there. A phone booth stood proud by a row of expensive cars, its windows tagged over with red spray paint. A glowing I-block, the solitary light in the darkness.

Matt squinted. There he was. Mello was inside, past the scratched windows. Mello didn't see him.

Matt honked, throwing on his hazard lights.

Mello didn't move.

Another honk. More obvious this time. _Hooooooonk_. "Come on," Matt muttered to himself, tapping his fingers against the wheel.

Still, nothing.

Matt threw open the car door, disgruntled. The warm air pushed against his face. The smell of jerky was almost as strong as the smell of soot and flames, and Matt coughed into his elbow, frowning as he walked closer to the phone booth.

"Hey," he called out. "Mello. Get in."

Mello still stood there, unmoving, ignoring him.

"What the fuck?" Matt grumbled, hiding his nose behind his shirt sleeve to get away from the smell. He took a few steps closer, towards the sidewalk, and then saw what was inside the phonebooth.

Matt's mouth fell open behind his sleeves.

It wasn't red spray paint over the glass. It was blood.

Handprints, smears, long drips that ran down to the asphalt and spread out on the floor. There was a heavy, thick trail of dark blood — almost brown in the night — that led up the dirt road, where a small patch of grass separated the burning lot from the overpass.

A crushed gas mask lay on the hill. Blonde hairs were caught in the visor, the glass cracked.

Matt walked closer to the phonebooth, the nape of his neck breaking out into a cold sweat. Mello was leaning against the window, his arm ripped up to shreds, holding his face with the heel of his palm.

"Oh God oh fuck oh God," Matt whispered as he reached out to pry open the accordion door with a shaky, clammy hand. The door slid back, and tight, hot air inside of the phonebooth exploded into Matt's face.

Matt coughed violently, turning away.

Something came crashing down on him. Matt caught it blindly before it fell, almost toppling over with the weight.

It was heavy. Extremely warm.

Mello.

His bloody blonde hair was in Matt's face, his body smelling like meaty smoke and grime. Matt couldn't stop coughing, shaking Mello with every cough that he racked out of his chest, spittle spraying all over Mello's hair. His lungs were tight with smoke and horror.

Mello said something then, his breath warm against Matt's shoulder. "W-what?" Matt stuttered, coughing again.

"Sixth street," Mello rasped. "San Julian."

Matt swallowed, looking down. Mello was bleeding so much. All over Matt's shirt. It was warm against his skin. He could feel it on his chest, on his stomach.

"Now," Mello croaked.

Matt looked up, blinking as he snaked his arms around Mello's waist, holding him gingerly. He pushed the door back with his hip as he fished him out of the phonebooth, his biceps screaming.

Mello was heavy. His leg caught against the glass door, and Matt yanked him out, almost falling over when he freed him. Against his shoulder, Mello was breathing wetly, crackling from his throat.

It sounded like he was choking on his blood.

Matt panted as he dragged him onto the empty road, glancing back at the burning building, sparks flying into the dirty clouds. Matt pulled him over to the passenger side, leaning Mello against the side of his car as he opened the car door, breathing shakily.

He pushed Mello onto the leather upholstery and folded him in, slamming the car door shut. He jogged back over to the driver's side, coughing again, out of breath.

The wind against his soaked shirt made the blood cling to his skin. The smoke in the lot had become even thicker, and Matt was getting lightheaded and dizzy.

He pulled open the car door of the driver's seat and threw himself in, exhaling tightly. Mello was curled up on his side, choking and gargling, the heel of his hand still pressed against his eye.

Matt couldn't see.

His vision was blurring. He blinked, shaking his head. A vignette of green surrounded his dashboard. In his chest, his heart flipped and flopped. He wanted to puke.

"Go," Mello groaned from beside him.

Matt couldn't. He couldn't fucking breathe. His lungs weren't expanding enough. His heart was cagefighting inside his chest. He still couldn't get the goddamn Tetris theme song out of his head, and behind his eyelids, blocks were flashing and falling and disappearing.

_SINGLE!_

God, there was so much fucking _blood_. Nobody had told him that burn victims bled like that. Why did they bleed like that?

_TETRIS!_

"Go," Mello hissed again, his breaths thin and reedy in his throat. Suddenly, Matt saw a phrase flash up in his brain as an L-block fell into place, years after he'd first learned it in his Crime Scene Investigations class.

_DEATH RATTLE!_

Matt opened his eyes. There wasn't any time left.

Mello was dying.

Matt swallowed, taking another deep breath as he reached out to his GPS screen. His fingers wouldn't stop shaking when he keyed in the address, the Tetris song still _dun-dada-dun_ing in his head.

_Sixth Stereet. _Fuck. _Sixht _fuck_. Sixth Street and St Jluai_—

"Miku," Matt growled, giving up on his shitty fingers, wiping them on his shirt. The GPS screen flashed, listening. "Get me to Sixth Street and St Julian."

"Okay!" Miku chirped, calibrating a map. Matt watched as the route wrote itself, and waited for it to flash. "Estimated Time of Arrival... ten minutes!"

Matt jerked the gear back, pressing on the gas pedal. When his car was flying on the road, he glanced over at Mello, listening to his crackling breaths as they faded in frequency.

"Come on, man," Matt said softly, prodding at his shoulder with one hand. Mello's skin was scorching hot. "Don't sleep."

Mello made a low whale-like noise in response.

"You go to sleep and you won't wake up."

Mello pushed his hand away weakly. Matt frowned, shaking his shoulder. "Hey."

Mello used the last of his oxygen supply to rasp, "Don't touch me."

Matt drew back, putting his hands on the wheel again. "Fine," he mumbled, offended. "Just tryna help, dude."

Mello didn't respond, and Tetris filled the rest of Matt's thoughts.

_Dun-dada-dun-dada-dun..._

Exactly ten minutes later, Matt found himself at an auto repair shop. The frosted glass in the small garage door windows were tagged over with white graffiti, its dirty walls caked with scum and rain damage. In faded red-to-blue bubble letters straight from an 80's lettering catalogue, the wall above the garage read MARIO'S AUTO SHOP REPAIR.

Miku announced, "You've arrived at your destination!"

"What the fuck is this?" Matt whispered to himself, twisting his head to look at the sign. He couldn't breathe. Mello smelled like death on crack and he wasn't moving anymore.

Matt was prepared for the worst.

The garage door opened automatically in front of him as he pulled in, welcoming him into its pallidly lit dungeon of car tools and fluorescent lights. Nothing was inside except for a short, stocky Italian guy with a Hawaiian shirt. His hairy arms waved over his head like an inflatable balloon man.

The guy called out something inaudible when Matt rolled in, his voice drowned out by the roar of the garage doors. Matt frowned, rolling his window down. The oil and rubber smell of the autoshop mixed with Mello's suffocating sweet-sour rot as he leaned out and shouted, "What?"

Miku announced, "You've arrived at your destination!"

"You with M?" the guy yelled back.

"Yeah," Matt shouted.

The guy nodded, turning around to the back of the garage, pressing a button by the wall. The garage doors closed behind them with another deafening roar, and Matt turned to look over at Mello, terrifyingly blue in the garage lights.

_Dun, dun, dunn…_

_GAME OVER!_

Mello looked dead. His blood had gotten all over his upholstery, drained out of his body, dark and sticky against his gear shift.

Miku repeated, "You've arrived at your destination!"

"Miku, shut the fuck up," Matt snapped, turning off his car. He sighed deeply, trying to control his heart, and the guy returned, waddling over to extend his hand through the window.

"I'm Mario," he said. "I'm a doctor."

"Hinicetomeetyou," Matt responded quickly. "Mel—I mean, uh, M isn't breathing."

Mario went over to peer at Mello in the passenger side, and motioned for Matt to roll down the other window. Matt cranked it, and Mario leaned in, grabbing the car ledge.

Mello took a shuddering breath. First one in what seemed like minutes.

Matt sighed in relief.

"What is that, an explosion?" Mario asked, looking over.

Matt nodded.

"Enclosed space?"

Matt nodded again as Mario reached over to undo the car lock, pulling the door open. The doctor jerked his head.

"Get outta the car, kid. Come and help me."

Matt pushed open this side of the car door, walking over. Mario glanced back at Matt when he reached him, pointing down at Mello's bloody, blue body.

"He ain't lookin' too good," Mario noted.

"No, sir."

Mario crouched to look Mello in the eye. "M," the doc said, snapping his fingers. "You hear me?"

Mello groaned softly in response, his breaths hissing.

"Can ya tell me what happened?"

"Fuck off," Mello mumbled, rasping.

"He's lucid," Mario announced as if he'd just scored a goal, and pulled himself back up with the car door. He jogged over to an office, disappearing, and left Matt alone with Mello in the car.

Matt looked down, staring at the heap of Mello's limbs. Dried blood caked his fingers, while fresh blood spilled from his face.

"Don't die," Matt urged.

Mello didn't respond.

"You can't die, you still owe me that 70k."

Mello didn't laugh at his joke.

Wheels squeaked. Matt looked up as Mario reappeared with a rolling workbench, pushing it towards Matt's car. He edged past Matt and grabbed ahold of Mello's good armpit, pulling him up and out.

_Riiiiiiip_. Mello's skin tore audibly away from the upholstery, and Matt's mouth fell open.

Mello's skin left a thin crust of pus and flesh behind on the seat. Cheese scum off the bottom of the pizza box, mixed with tomato sauce blood.

"You gonna just stand there or what?" Mario snapped, holding Mello up against his shoulder.

Matt swallowed and shook his head weakly, taking hold of Mello's legs to pull him through the door. They hoisted Mello over the rolling workbench together with a hard thud.

Mello held onto his left eye desperately as Mario wheeled him away to one of the rooms, closing the door behind him. They left Matt in the garage on his own, staring silently at the plaque on the office door.

_RESTRICTED AREA. EMPLOYEE ONLY. DO NOT ENTER._

Holy fuck, Mello wasn't going to make it out of there alive.

This was a nightmare. Matt had thought Sixth Street and San Julian was a hospital, not a fucking quack in a body shop. Mello was out of his goddamned mind to think this was going to go well.

Matt was going to have to do all the grunt work after this.

Notify the next of kin. Alright, done.

Plan the funeral, announce it to Mello's buddies. _Hey, Mello's dead guys, here are invitations to the funeral! RSVP soon!_

Matt hadn't gone to a funeral since he was a kid. His aunts arranged that one.

He didn't know how to fucking do any of this.

Matt moved and slammed his car door shut, staring at his feet like they'd tell him his next steps. His stomach was twisting, bubbling. Anxiety surged through his skin and wormed into his heart.

Oh fuck, he couldn't breathe again. Matt bent over, hands on his knees, and did the breathing trick. He closed his eyes and inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled. Exhaled.

A block shifted over behind his eyes and cleared. _MELLO'S DEAD!_

Yeah, that didn't help at all.

Matt swallowed, opening his eyes to an emergency door just on the other side of the garage, EXIT written backwards in red font on the stained glass. A stray brick was wedged in the doorway, keeping the door from closing completely.

Matt walked over and left.

He didn't want to deal with this. He didn't want to deal with Mello. He didn't want to be there when he died. Mario could take care of him tonight. Matt didn't ask for any of this.

On the other side of the emergency exit was a parking lot-turned-dumpster zone, large green containers opened big and wide. Matt only got halfway through the lot before the stench hit. The smell of decomposing bodies and burnt tires wafted into his nostrils, coating the tips of his nose hairs.

Matt saw something that looked like a piece of flesh on the ground, and his dinner came up and out his throat.

All over the sloping asphalt. Half-digested pizza and cornflakes, but mostly just bile. It splashed onto the dumpsters, getting all over his faux-Demonia boots.

Matt groaned, wiping his mouth. His body was shaking. The piece of flesh on the ground was just a half-eaten slice of pizza. Turned over, the cheese caked on the floor.

It looked like Mello's skin.

Matt swallowed, shaking his head. He couldn't fucking leave him behind. Something kept him tethered to the garage emergency door, like an invisible rope attached to his spine.

He fumbled with shaky fingers to his pocket, grabbing his pack of cigs.

He smoked, trying to clear his brain with the smoke in his lungs. No dice.

Sometime later, he went back inside.

The restricted door was still closed. He knocked, and Mario opened the door a second later, glaring at him through the crack of the doorway. "Where the fuck were you?" Mario grouched.

Matt wrung his hands. "I wanted to have a smoke," he mumbled back, and added as if it'd get him out of trouble, "I puked."

Mario rolled his eyes and threw the door back, letting Matt through. "Close the door behind you," he grumbled, waddling back inside.

Matt squeezed past, closing the door when he went in. They were in a tight little room with surgical equipment hung up by magnets on the walls, mixed in with car tools, almost impossible to tell apart from one another.

Matt took a few more hesitant steps forward until he saw Mello again, naked on the makeshift surgical table. His leather clothes lay limp on the floor, and Mario was back at his side, pumping a tube down Mello's throat and staring at a small screen.

Clearing the airways. Violently.

The whole room smelled like smoke. Matt bit his lip as he watched the tubes go deeper and deeper into Mello's mouth like a reverse magic trick. Mello himself looked like a corpse, strung up with wires and tubes. His burns were covered with towels from a bucket on the ground like he was at the spa.

Not a very relaxing one.

The mouth of the tube was probably touching Mello's asshole by the time Mario decided he was done. He dismantled his set up and grabbed a piece of medical tape from a repurposed lawn table, taping the tube down against Mello's cheek.

He pressed a few buttons on the ventilation machine. _Beep_. Mello was breathing again, deeply and robotically.

Matt took a few steps closer to see Mello more clearly. The one eye Mario had left exposed was closed, and his face was relaxed in a way Matt had never seen before.

He looked serene. Peaceful.

Huh.

"You know how much noise he made?" Mario suddenly asked. Matt looked up, turning around to see Mario lighting up a cigarette with a match by the sink. "M's a sharp shot, but he's a screamer. Couldn't get him to shut up 'til I knocked him out."

Mario blew out the flame, throwing the match onto the soiled concrete. On the wall behind him, there was a medical school diploma on the wall, framed with rusting metal.

Mario DiMatteo. Medical license dated back from 2002.

Matt frowned. "This is a smoking area?"

Mario shrugged. "I don't see no smoking signs."

Matt blinked and looked away. Quacks.

"Anyway. Uh." Matt licked his lips, clearing his throat. "Is M gonna be okay?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Mario answered vaguely.

That answer did absolutely jack shit to assuage Matt's pangs of anxiety. Mario pinched the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, exhaling a cloud of smoke, and walked over to the counter to grab a mug. In Comic Sans: _Dad of the Year_.

They fell into silence. Matt lifted a thumb into his mouth, sucking dried blood from the cuticles that he ripped off while he was detoxing. Anxious habit.

"So off the record," Mario spoke up, "What the hell happened?"

Matt looked over. Mario was leaning against the counter, staring at him.

"Set off a bomb, I think," Matt answered.

"No shit. Targeted?"

"Not that I know of."

Mario gave him an unsubtle once-over. "You two go back?"

Matt shrugged, biting off the skin. "Sorta."

"He told me he had a contact he could trust," Mario continued, tapping out his ash into his dad mug. "I knew M when he was in New York. Got me a shop over here in LA after they took my license."

Matt pretended to know what Mario was saying, sucking the blood from his thumb. "Oh yeah."

"Yeah. I owe him a few favors. Guess you do too."

A timer attached to the cupboards beeped, and Mario looked back, shutting it off quickly. He walked over to the sink to rinse his hands as Matt looked away, back at Mello.

Wait. Hold up.

Matt squinted, tilting his head, and let his hand fall to his side. There was an IV drip attached to Mello's arm, tucked into his elbow and secured by a thin layer of medical tape. Several IV bags hung above him, saline and solution and zinc and nutrients.

One of the labels in particular made Matt laugh bitterly, without even realizing it. In all caps, Helvetica font.

_Morphine Sulfate_.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Matt whispered to himself. The clear liquid dripped into the tube slowly, rolling down the plastic until it dribbled into Mello's veins. 1mg for 1mL.

Jealousy and desperation mixed together in the pit of Matt's stomach. He would fucking give anything to be where Mello was right now. Warm and cozy and floating on a little lotus flower where nothing could go wrong.

How fucking unfair. Mello got to close his eyes and enjoy shit. Matt had to stay awake and watch him have a good time.

"You okay, kid?"

Matt whipped around. Mario was staring at him funny, holding onto a bucket of medical supplies with both of his hairy arms. Matt shrugged, taking a step back.

"Sorry," Matt said, his thumb returning to his lips. "Was I in the way?"

"Eh," Mario answered indifferently, edging past Matt to dump the bucket onto the surgical table. Matt sighed to himself, watching as Mario removed the towel from Mello's face, revealing his burns.

Holy fucking shit.

Mello's face was half gone. His cheek was floppy, nothing more than white globs of skin failing to hold back meat that looked like lasagna, shiny brown patches that looked like deflated prune plums. If Matt hadn't already puked just now, he would have gone again. Mello's burns were glowing and weeping.

Mario dropped more of the towels as Matt stared on dumbly, littering them on the floor and exposing Mello's burns for all that they were. They traced jagged down the length of his neck, his shoulder, his waist, in unhuman colors like brown and pink and yellow and red, glistening and shining in the dim hanging light.

"Oh my god," Matt breathed. He didn't know what else to say.

Mario looked back, smirking. "Yeah, right?" He grabbed a scalpel off the surgical table, aiming it at a fluid-filled boil, and cut it open. Clear liquid gushed out of the boils, dribbling onto the floor. "Imagine how he's feeling."

Well, that was easy. Mello wasn't feeling anything at all. He was fucking high.


	16. Chapter 16

Matt was at Mario's Garage until early morning. Couldn't sleep on the hard plastic chairs he had in the waiting room, and his car smelled like smoke and burnt pork, so he stayed up until the morning sun.

He watched KTLA instead.

All that was on TV were Family Guy reruns and the early morning news. They ran a segment on the explosion, playing the same footage of the sooty Soto Street Junction mansion. They said it was a "gang-related incident." The numbers were shaky: 9 dead, 3 injured, 1 in critical condition.

One was right there in the garage. Matt doubted they counted him.

The whole thing felt like deja vu. The reports, the breaking news labels, the tragedy of finding unidentifiable bodies burned black and leathery. Matt was eight years old again, reading smelly old picture books from the 60's and waiting for someone to pick him up from the group home.

Except he wasn't. He was nineteen, tired, dopesick, and bored. Nobody was going to pick him up from Mario's Garage. He was all alone, waiting for Mello to make it out alive or dead.

No idea what to do after this was over and done.

Matt was outside by the dumpsters, smoking his last cigarette in the cool winds of dawn. The sky was the color of a stick of Juicy Fruit. The only other people on the street were homeless or drunk.

All night, Matt kept entertaining the idea of skipping town.

Leaving his Camaro behind, renting another car and going down to Mexico to be with goats and stray dogs. He'd heard that the black tar was amazing down there. He'd escape for good, forge a new identity. Huevo Frito of los Estados Unidos.

Huevo flicked the cigarette butt onto the gravel and crushed it under his boot.

But he was not Huevo. He was Matt. And Matt knew, for better or for worse, that becoming Señor Frito was nothing but a fantasy. Like getting whisked off to England to become a wizard at Hogwarts, or going to Vegas to rake money in at casinos as James Bond.

Being Matt was meant to suck.

Matt glanced down at his pack, peeling back the aluminum foil to see if he could smoke another. None left. He sighed and pulled the side of the emergency exit door, skipping over the brick on the ground to head back in.

For the first time all night, the door to the surgery room-cum-office space was open, and Mario was nowhere to be found.

Matt threw his cigarette pack into the garbage bin by the waiting room and walked back into the office. Nobody was inside except for the heavily medicated Mello, completely bandaged from the chest up, his head eclipsed by a hard, mummified shell. Nothing but a small hole for his pink mouth.

His arms were stuck to his side rigidly. Below the bandages, he was naked. Bruises flanked his legs, blooming up his skinny thighs.

It was horrifying and funny at the same time. If it was any other situation, he might have even laughed.

But Matt was Matt, and Matt was tired and bitter, so he stared emptily at Mello, wondering what the fuck Mario was going to do with him next.

"Hey, you're back," the doc's voice said from behind him. "Go in."

Matt turned, stepping aside to let the doc through and followed him in. The garage lights lit up a real big bald spot at the back of his head, shining like an egg. Up close, the doc kind of reminded him of Danny DeVito.

Mario placed the paper baggy he was holding onto a counter top and took out a calculator, pressing the sticky buttons. He had a half-lit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, burning down as he calculated.

Matt frowned when he realized what Mario was doing. "M's not staying here?"

"What? No." Mario made a face. "I'm runnin' a business 'ere, kid. Whaddaya think my customers are gonna say when they see that?"

"Well, I don't know how to take care of him," Matt protested.

"Then you're gonna learn."

Matt wanted to keep bitching, but he shut his mouth. He watched as Mario racked up the total, turning up his palm.

"250."

Yikes.

Matt grabbed his wallet, counting crisp ten's that he'd gotten earlier at the ATM. He had only two dismal fives left inside when he handed the money over.

The doc took the bills in his hands, licking his finger and rifling through them expertly. Distantly, Matt wondered if he had to tip.

Bad customer service. 1/5 stars.

"M already paid for the aftercare upfront," Mario explained, tucking the bills into his chest pocket and patting it down with his sausage fingers. "So that's all you gotta put in."

Matt rolled his eyes inwardly. Of course Mello knew this would happen, the prophetic son of a bitch.

"Listen up," Mario continued, grabbing the baggy and emptied it out onto the workbench. "I'm only gonna say this once, so if you wanna keep M alive, you're gonna do what I say."

A few different bottles rolled out of the bag with some other medical shit. Matt stared at them, waiting for their labels to roll into view. One of them was lorazepam. The other one, morphine sulfate.

Score.

"Hey," Mario's voice cut in, snapping his fat fingers. "You listening?"

Matt looked up and nodded.

"I said. Clean everything M touches. Everything." Mario wagged his fat finger, picking up the gauze. "And you gotta change his bandages once a day."

"What? _Change_?" Matt furrowed his brows. "I have to _change_ him?"

Mario gave him a dirty look. "Yeah, kid. What, you want him to get sepsis and die?"

"No, but how the fuck do I do that?"

"With gauze, kid. Whaddaya want me to say?"

Matt bit his tongue, watching as Mario grabbed the bottle of morphine, tiny in his hand. "And you gotta give him 1 mL every two hours," he continued. "Nothin' more. I'm only giving you one bottle. When it's done, switch him to OTC."

Matt nodded obediently.

"And," Mario added, pointing his grubby fingers at Matt's face, the tip of his cigarette burning a little too close to Matt's nose, "If you shoot this shit up, you can say bye-bye to M."

Matt pulled away, feigning innocence. "What?"

"You heard what I said," Mario replied, shoving it back into the baggy. He threw his finished cig on the floor, extinguishing under his tan shoes. Matt bit his lip, crossing his arms in guilt or shame or something and shifting his weight.

"M's gonna be in a lot of pain," Mario continued, crinkling the bag. "You're gonna wanna give him the morphine, or else it's gonna be hell for you and him. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"Yeah, 'course," Matt mumbled back, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly.

Mario grabbed a small bottle of loraz. "Give him 1mL of this to keep him sedated, healing and quiet," Mario continued, shoving it back into the bag with the rest of the stuff. "Use the oral syringe. I'm not giving you no needles. M said in his contract he didn't want no needles."

Matt nodded, pursing his lips. Mario walked over to the sink and grabbed a business card from a plastic holder, handing it over.

"You got any questions, you can gimme a call," he said. Matt took the card, squinting at the bubbly blue-and-yellow logo. "Now scram. I gotta open up shop in two hours."

Matt put away the card. "Wait."

"What now?"

Matt gestured to the naked Mello. "Clothes."

"Oh yeah," Mario said, chuckling harshly to himself. He grabbed another cigarette from his pocket full of money and lumbered back to a storage closet to grab something.

The sound of something hard scraped against the cement floor, and then a milk crate full of clothes from God knows where slid out of the door, pouring out of the box like a Walgreens discount bin.

"We got suits, shirts, button-ups, the works." Mario got down on one knee to fish out a ratty-looking long-sleeved top with his cigarette wedged in his teeth, grinning up at Matt like he was posing for a picture. "You wanna dress him up?"

As Mario straightened out the shirt, Matt saw faded stains all over the collar.

Somebody got their throat slit in that.

"Jesus Christ," Matt muttered. "You got a fucked up sense of humor, man."

Mario cackled, throwing it in, and pushed himself off the crate with his fat hands. "Comes with the job description, kid," he said, pinching his cigarette out of his mouth as he walked away. "You'll get used to it."

Going eastbound, they were the only car for miles. Morning sickness was what it felt like, cruising down the open highways under the salmon clouds of sunrise, the other lane filling with early morning workers and transport trucks.

Matt felt like his eyes were shuttering closed, but he had to keep awake. Had to keep his eyes on the road, lest veer off into the meridian and get them both killed.

God willing.

Radio was on. Matt didn't know why, but it was better than thinking or Tetris, and God knew Mello wasn't going to do any talking. Cool wind whipped through the open windows, not doing much for the stench of smoky pork rinds and blood. Matt really needed to Febreeze the shit out of his car when this was good and done.

When he was back in his neighborhood, Matt took the next exit towards Koreatown, turning a block early for the bigger 7-11 nearby. Anonymity seemed preferable at the moment. Matt was tired, but he knew he needed to stock up on supplies.

He parked shittily outside, far enough from the front door that the security cameras couldn't pick him up. A homeless guy was chilling by the side of the street, panhandling with an old coffee cup just outside of the convenience store.

Matt knew he had to be quick, or else his ride would probably catch some attention. He rolled up the windows and held his breath, turning off the ignition.

Matt sighed, shaking his head.

It'd been a long fucking night. Matt looked back and realized that Mello still stood out like a sore thumb. He'd dressed him up to the best of his ability from Mario's Closet — a semi-clean button up and extremely loose jeans that belonged to someone at least three times' Mello size.

Still, he looked like a fucking mummy.

God damnit. Nothing was ever easy.

Matt sat back down in the driver's seat, debating what to do. Wake him up? Hide him? Stuff him in the trunk?

Matt snorted to himself, shaking his head.

He pushed the passenger seat back flat instead.

The sun trickled in through the window, shining right into Mello's eyeholes. Matt lifted his ass and unearthed his vest, warm after being sat on for so long, and draped it over Mello's head, rearranging it so that it covered Mello's face completely.

He wasn't sure if Mello could breathe under the corduroy, but he figured, eh. Good enough.

"Hey, you need any help?"

Matt turned around to the source of the voice. A scrawny teenager in a 7-11 uniform handed him a basket, his eyes red like he was sleep deprived or baked like a can of beans.

Matt was inside the store, stood in front of the microwavable food section with his arms full of Easy Mac and ten cans of tomato soup. He smiled noncommittally at the kid and mumbled his thanks, dumping his shit in, and then turned back to do the rest of his shopping.

Milk. Chocolate milk. Monster, Red Bull, Rockstar. Arizona, in Mucho Mango and Green Tea. He glanced longingly at the beer shelves as he passed them, gripping the fridge door. 6AM meant too early to get them, but tossed a few cans of PBR into his basket just for the hell of it.

He drifted over to the healthcare shelf, grabbing everything even remotely useful: bandaids, bandages, Purell. Tums, why not. Tylenol. Fuck it, make that two bottles.

What else? Oh, he didn't have clean sheets. Mario voice: _clean everything_. Matt lumbered over to the cooking section and stared up at the Saran wrap, squinting as he grabbed it off the shelf and read its dimensions. They only had a few of those 100 sq ft ones, overpriced for what they were worth.

A full bed was around four by six, maybe four inches tall. Almost thirty square feet for one surface of his bedspread, more if he wanted overlap, times two for a second layer. If he wanted to change the wrap at least once a day for the next week, then—

Ah, fuck it. Matt grabbed all the available Saran wrap boxes on the shelf, sweeping them into his shopping basket.

That should be enough.

The radio announced overhead that they were starting this fine Wednesday morning with Lady Gaga, and then ooh-la-oh-mama filled the shiny linoleum store. Matt sighed, exhaustion crawling back into his bones as he walked over to the cash register, his feet sinking into the carpet like quicksand.

He lugged his basket over the register, slamming it onto the glass top with a _thump_. "Hey man," Matt greeted. "Can I get a cart—shit, three cartons of Camel Reds?"

The kid nodded, turning away to grab the cartons from the shelf behind him. "Bit late for Halloween," he joked as he returned with the cartons, scanning them with a beep. "Since that was, like, two weeks ago."

Matt looked down at his stained shirt as the kid stuffed the cartons into a bag that definitely couldn't fit them. "Oh," he said, laughing humorlessly. "Yeah."

"What are you?"

"Freddy Krueger," Matt answered, glancing back at his car in the parking lot. It looked empty from outside. The homeless guy didn't seem to care much for it, panhandling a middle aged woman as she shrunk away from him, walking through the automatic doors with a cringe.

"I was just about to guess that," the kid gleamed, scanning the PBR without a second's hesitation. "You'll be having a good night, I see."

"Yeah, sure will be fun," Matt mumbled. He looked back at the total, grabbing his wallet from his back pocket as the number racked up higher and higher. He didn't have enough cash left, so he grabbed his credit card, watching as the kid scanned on.

The green digits passed 300, and Matt sighed to himself. Christ, he was really burning through his savings lately.

The kid pressed a few buttons and hauled the bags over the counter, reading off the total. "That'll be—"

Sunlight. Streaming into his room from between the blinds with a point to prove.

Matt sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, toasting.

He couldn't sleep. It was too fucking hot. After driving home, setting the bed up, turning the radiator on all the way, and getting Mello in some more comfortable clothes — a hoodie that was too hot to wear in LA, and a nondescript pair of black track pants — Matt had given Mello a good dose of the loraz that'd keep him quiet for at least five more hours.

He didn't want to leave Mello alone, lest he die in his sleep from septic shock or a cardiac arrest, praise Kira. So he stayed. He sat there with his rapidly lukewarming Red Bull like a good nurse, staring at the tiny bottle of morphine.

The label had faded from how long Matt had been holding it under his sweaty fingers. _Mor hine ulfat_. Matt turned it around, reading the rest of the label for the nth time in the last hour.

_100 mg per 5mL. Only for patients who are opioid tolerant_.

That was just a taunt. It might as well have just had his name on it. _Only for junkies and especially YOU, Matt_.

Matt shook his head to himself.

100 mg per 5mL meant that it could last him at least fifteen to twenty hits. He heard the half-life of morphine was slightly shorter than the _other _drug, but it was also more potent. Matt wondered how clean the rush was. How warm and cozy the high would feel.

How good it'd feel to not have to be awake anymore.

Matt tilted the bottle and held it over his head, the bright teal of the liquid inside the glass winking in the sunlight. His neighbor locked the front door outside, greeting someone on the street directly below him, singing "hello's" and "good mornings."

Matt sighed, shaking his head again as he put the mor hine back on the bedside table.

He'd mustered his last bit of self-control, and most of it was due to guilt. Any other situation, he would have already just shot the shit up without a second thought. But it was one thing for Mello to die on his own terms, blowing up that building. Another entirely to be solely responsible for fucking up in the aftercare and letting him die while he nodded.

Call him a pussy, but Matt just didn't think he'd be able to have that on his conscience.

He sighed, scuttling over to grab his laptop from the end of the bed. He needed to read some medical journals, some tutorials about aftercare. Anything to keep his mind off of the little bottle.

It was semi-successful. Matt was focused on his computer until an hour later, Mello made a noise from his mouth hole, shifting around on the Saran wrap.

Matt looked up, rubbing his eyes and turning down his screen brightness. Mello made another noise, even though he should have been knocked the fuck out, which meant something was wrong.

"Hey," Matt said, hoisting himself off of his ass. "You okay?"

He walked over just to see Mello's hand try to fly to his face, but fail. The bandages ended at his elbow, black nail polish clinging to his fingernails.

"Fuck," Mello whispered. He groaned again, trying to move his arm feebly. "Shit."

It must hurt a shitton. 1 mL didn't seem to be enough for the pain, and as long as Mello felt it, then it meant Matt had to keep dealing with him. He grabbed the bottle of mor hine from off the bedside table, his fingers already more than familiar with the grooves of the ampoule.

So he really had to open the thing now. That was an exercise in self-preservation. Mello needed his shot.

"How much does it hurt?" he asked Mello, thumbing the protective seal with bated breath. "On a scale of 1 to 10."

Mello didn't answer. He started to mumble something low and monotonous under his breath instead: a chant, guttural and repetitive.

Hm. That was his prayer voice. If Mello was turning to God, it must have meant something he couldn't deal with on his own. 1.5 mL might be a good idea, at least until the pain started to fade.

Matt ripped the foil like he hadn't been waiting since morning to do it, grabbing the oral syringe from off his bedside, and then pulled up to 1.3, just shy of the line. The oral mor hine was more viscous than he was expecting. It looked like Gatorade inside the barrel.

Another round of Hail Mary's spilled out of Mello's mouth as Matt held the syringe up and lowered himself onto the mattress, ignoring his urge to stick a needle in the syringe and slam it back. His knees shuffled over the plastic as he moved himself over, and then he jammed the syringe in between Mello's open lips, wedging the tip between his teeth.

The plunger came down like a drop tower, spurting blue against Mello's teeth and tongue. As Matt slipped the tip out, morphine followed, dripping down the side of his bandages and coloring them aqua.

"Jesus," Matt mumbled, shaking his head. What a fucking waste. "Swallow, asshole."

Mello swallowed audibly, like a goddamn baby learning to feed. And slowly, but surely, over the course of the next five minutes as Matt cooked under the 90 degree heat, he listened as Mello's noises faded into the air, his breathing growing heavy and deep.

Matt sighed, tearing the damp shirt over his head and wiping at the nape of his neck. He hid the morphine in the closet.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Bzzt. Bzzt—

Matt jolted, sweat running down his face. His screensaver was gallivanting on the screen in front of him, running laps around the brick maze. The room was dark now, completely black, and he was still sitting on the floor, his ass asleep.

Something kept buzzing. What the fuck was that noise?

Bzzt—

Oh, Jesus. It was his fucking doorbell. Matt grabbed the mattress, his fingers slipping past the plastic wrap with the sweat on his palm, and pulled himself up, stumbling into his closet mirror. Fuck, his legs hurt, sending crackling fuzzy static down his calves and heels. He could barely move as he limped towards the bedroom door, pulling it open, and then, shielding his eyes, he sped up across the living room.

Bzzzzt—

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Matt called out, dragging his prickling legs over. The buzzer stopped buzzing, and when Matt finally made it, he peeked through the peephole and saw a Mexican guy in a UPS delivery outfit.

"Jesus, that's quick," Matt mumbled, unlocking and swinging the door open. The dude smiled at him as he leaned against the doorway, squinting at the hallway light. "Yeah?"

"Package delivery for," the guy looked down at his clipboard, "Harry Sachz?"

"Yup." Matt jerked his head for the pen and scribbled a line on the paper, grabbing the heavy package out of the dude's arms. "Oof." He dropped it onto the ground, kicking it out of the door's way. "Thanks, man."

He shut the door, pushing the cardboard to the middle of the living room where there was more room. Not even one day shipping — this only took a few hours, if that. Some fast workers over at eBay.

He knelt on the floor with his weak legs beside it, grabbing a pair of scissors off the coffee table. The blades glided through the tape, and there he was, ripping the whole thing wide open like Goatse.

Meal supplements in bottles. A whole crate of forty-eight, in dark chocolate because that was the type of chocolate that Mello liked to eat. Yeah, Matt was a fucking God.

He grabbed one of the bottles and walked to the bathroom, glancing at the time as he passed the DVD player. 6:39. Time that he fed Mello about now, probably. He had to change the dressings while he was at it, too.

Goddamn, Matt really didn't want to do this.

But he put on his big boy pants and did it anyway. He propped the Ensure onto the sink and sat down on the lip of the bathtub, cracking his neck.

Fuck, his back ached. He'd slept on the bedroom floor for the first time since he was a kid, and now his body was mad at him for it, trying to make him pay. He stretched out his spine with a groan and leaned forward to open the faucet.

The tub was clean. He'd scrubbed it with Lysol to the best of his abilities earlier, and now the porcelain shone, shiny white in the dim bathroom light. He hadn't seen it so spotless since he'd first moved in — the water looked completely translucent as it filled the bottom up slowly, rippling softly under the light.

Matt shifted, blinking.

He was scrubbing at the open sores and mushy skin flapping on Mello's shoulder. The dressings he had been mummified in were a pile inside the overflowing garbage can, gauze caked with skin scum.

God, he was tired. The bathroom fan was on, working mercilessly, because it smelled awful. Pork rinds and meaty smoke, sweet and bitter and awful and oily. So bad Matt couldn't even describe it.

Scrub a dub dub.

Matt's day felt just like it wouldn't fucking end, and he knew it was just the beginning. He had to keep pulling up his shirt sleeves as they drooped down, wiping at the dead skin, watching as it fluttered into the water.

The wound started bleeding. Matt wiped at it and wrung out his towel, a droplet of water hitting his cheek. Matt dried it with his arm and yawned, cracking his neck.

Fuck it. He was done.

He reached over Mello's burnt body to pull the plug, small pieces of shrapnel and rubble dancing in the dim pink bathwater. Mario wasn't very thorough in hosing him down, and Matt watched as the skin bits got sucked inside the drain, burping bubbles of filthy water.

Matt had redosed him with loraz when he drank his Ensure, and the morphine had long since set in. For the 18th hour of the 24-hour day, Mello was out. Mouth dangling, so doped he looked half-dead.

Lucky fucking bastard.

Matt pushed Mello's head back against the wall and grabbed one of his cleaner towels to wipe at his face, revealing his prosciutto ham burns to the big bad world. He wasn't sure if he hated seeing Mello's awful mummy look more or the burns, but now, he decided that the gore was way worse. The pink, veiny flesh of his left cheek looked tight, warm to touch when Matt tried to wipe at it.

It was fucking gross.

The water gurgled, the last of his waste washing down the drain. Mello's legs glistened, his wet feet propped up against the drain, his toenails painted black.

Matt popped his spine, pulling back. Here came step two.

Matt stuck out his foot to his laptop, sitting on the ground beside the toilet, and brushed his big toe against the trackpad. The screen came back to life before him on a Facebook picture of a plump and smiling Amy, dressed up for Lydia's quinceañera from June.

Fuck. No, not that. Matt swooped down and closed the tab hastily, bringing up the YouTube video he'd found earlier, and pressed play.

As the video began, Matt sighed and settled back onto the lip of the bathtub, trying to ignore how bad his ass hurt.

"This video is to help with the application of Silvadene dressing," the voiceover announced, echoing in his small bathroom. "The items that you need for this type of dressing are your Silvadene cream, gauze or clean cotton fabric such as…"

Matt leaned over to grab the tub of Silvadene from off the toilet lid and unscrewed the cap. He bent down to remove the aluminum seal as the woman continued, "Provide the prescribed pain medication to your child at least thirty minutes before the dressing change."

"Yup," Matt answered, glancing back at Mello's dangling mouth.

"Cellulitis is when bacteria infects the wound and the skin around it. Usually, it starts with tenderness, redness, and swelling around the wound. Sometimes, a fever will also…"

He poked his toe towards the arrow button, fast forwarding the video as he unravelled the gauze, cutting it into small pieces, and then scooped up a small dollop of Silvadene onto his finger.

"When preparing Silvadene, do not put your hands or fingers into the jar."

Matt scoffed. "Shit."

"… Use a tongue depressor, to scoop out a small amount. And then, paint the Silvadene onto pieces of gauze..."

The video showed a pair of gloved hands squeezing Silvadene onto the dressing. Matt squinted and followed along, evening the gauzes out on the toilet lid and smearing the Silvadene over it.

"When painting the Silvadene onto the gauze, paint a thin layer," the lady said gently. "We like to tell people to paint like you would put butter on toast. Not like cream cheese on a bagel."

Matt snorted, evening the ointment out.

"… Place your prepared Silvadene-covered gauze over the burn..."

He picked it up gingerly like a portrait with a face of wet paint, slapping the biggest piece onto Mello's burnt shoulder. And then again. And again. And again. He covered Mello like he was paper macheing a balloon, until he was pure white again.

When he was done, Mello looked like half of him was being made into a mask. A shitty little Mello cast, covering his left shoulder, his left arm, his neck, most of his face aside from a big mouth-hole.

The woman continued on in the background. "You are ready to wrap the burned area. When wrapping any arm or leg, always start with the bottom…"

Matt paused the video and grabbed the dressing, mummifying Mello's arm, his shoulder, his neck not too tightly. His face was the hardest part. He had to wrap it over the top of his right ear down to his left cheek, and then over his nose and across his forehead, trying to make sure Mello didn't wake up and accidentally get Silvadene into his eye.

He taped the dressings closed when he was done, leaning back to admire his work. It didn't look anything like Mario's mummy, nor neatly wrapped around his messy hair, but none of his burns were showing and that was a start.

Matt nodded to himself, proud. And then he unpaused the video to see what else was left.

"Make sure to reward your child and yourself for completing this dressing change," the woman concluded, and the video faded to black.

Matt looked over to Mello, who was still knocked out cold. "What do you want?"

Mello didn't answer.

Matt knew what he wanted, though. He lifted his hips and slipped a rogue cigarette from his back pocket, crumpled, and lit it up in the bathroom. He rolled his head back, exhaling deeply into the stained ceiling like it was the best feeling on earth.

Honestly, it wasn't. It was just a cigarette. But compared to all the other shitty things that had been happening in his life, it was fine. Good enough.


	17. Chapter 17

There were two caskets. Two pictures at the altar, framed with a russet wood. Matt had his sleeves in his fists, in an old hoodie that belonged to his brother. When he looked down at the ground, the dark brown carpet had marks on it that he'd made when he moved his feet a certain way, the tip of his winter boots stained with salt and snow.

All he could smell was flowers. All he could hear was the sound of a man talking about two people he'd never met in their lives. Old women with perfume that smelled like gardenia, gold bangles on their wrists. Cold January winds blowing snow and dried leaves into the hall.

Someone had left the front doors open. Matt sniffed, and somebody gave him a tissue.

The casket lid fell off with a hefty creak.

A head of red hair, and a hand, long painted red nails like talons emerged from the satin lining. Matt closed his eyes, his heart rate skyrocketing, but he still saw her as she lifted herself off the wooden edge.

This shouldn't happen. She was missing half a face. Burns pink and raw, from her face to her shoulder, oozing blood and pus. Matt squeezed his eyes shut tighter, fisting the fabric of his jeans, but she was still there.

She climbed over the casket, onto the carpeted floor, down the steps. Closer and closer. The stench of smoke from her body was overwhelming. Her skin was sliding off, shedding onto the floor like translucent, fat noodles, boils bubbling and blisters popping and growing back as she slid closer.

Her blood left a trail on the floor, the dark carpet turning black. She was saying his name. His birth name. A big red mouth, bleeding from her teeth as she spoke, her voice empty, toneless.

He looked at the pastor, he looked all around him at his aunts and uncles and grandmothers. Nobody was looking back. The pastor's mumbles didn't sound like words, but everybody but Matt seemed to understand them.

Matt tried to scream out loud, but his throat had been constricted, choked by an invisible hand. The pastor's mumbling didn't stop. Matt tried to climb back on the pews as his mother kept crawling closer.

She touched his leg. His knee. An ice cold shock shot through his veins, and Matt gasped, his heart dropping, and suddenly—

He was sleeping at the end of his mattress, sweating bullets onto the plastic wrap, his heart pounding. The sound of the pastor's mumbling still hadn't stopped even after he'd woken up, and he peeled his cheek off of the Saran wrap with an audible rip, rubbing it softly.

The sound came from the head of his mattress. That human-shaped thing over there.

"Jesus Christ," Matt breathed, straightening up on his elbows and squinting.

It was Mello, praying again. Half-wrapped, still as a Hindu cow.

"You've been doing this all fucking day now," Matt murmured, dropping his head and pulling himself up. "Give it a fucking rest already."

Mello ignored him. He had gone from looking like a sarcophagus to a mummy-patient straight out of Japanese gore fetish porn, chanting on and on and on and on, his fingers rubbing over the wooden beads of his rosary. Matt had given it back to him the other night when he found that it'd been unharmed in the explosion, and Mello hadn't let go of it since.

Whatever. None of his concern.

Matt tried to slow down his breaths, rubbing at his pounding chest. He wasn't sure how long he'd been sleeping — wasn't sure it really mattered, since sleep seemed like a fucking luxury at this point — but the headache made him think that he'd only dozed off for an hour or so, if that. His night terrors hadn't gotten this bad since he left the House, either, so he knew his circadian rhythm was fucked.

Again, life fucking blew. Move along. Nothing new here.

Matt got off the floor and crawled onto the end of the mattress, scooting towards the wall by the window sill. His back needed support. He pried his fingers between the blinds, peering up at the sky above him.

The moon was round and full, real big against the palm trees and the dark hills beyond. Almost hiding behind the ferns. What was that, almost four in the morning?

Mello said something unintelligible, something that broke from the praying schedule for once. Matt looked back, poking his fingers out of the aluminum. "Huh?"

"Where am I?" Mello asked nobody, his voice sounding like how it used to at Wammy's.

Matt frowned. "Uh… my room."

"Oh."

Matt twisted his face. "You don't remember?"

Mello replied by reciting another round of Hail Mary's.

Jesus, there he went again, no matter the amount of loraz that was in his system. Matt was running low already — he'd just dosed him an hour ago, if that; just before he slept. Mello was burning through the drugs with reckless abandon. Quick enough to develop an addiction if Matt wasn't careful.

Ha ha. Who was the junkie now.

Matt pulled his legs to his chest and rummaged around the plastic wrap for his headphones, picking them up from between the bunched up Saran wrap and the wall. His iPod was sitting on the window sill, and he grabbed it in his hand.

Sleep meditation music. That was his new thing. Helped him sleep better.

He replaced his headphones, pressing play on his iPod, but there wasn't any sound. Fuck. He probably needed to charge it again — he'd been listening to it almost nonstop every night.

"—am I here?"

Matt looked up at Mello's voice, catching the tail end of him crossing himself. The first bodily movement he'd seen in days. He pulled out one of his earphones, frowning. "Huh?"

"Why am I here?"

Matt tilted his head. "You blew yourself up," he answered.

"God came back for me. In the burning building."

Matt blinked. "What?"

"He sent an archangel. An angel with wings. Like the ones in Scripture."

Fucking Christ on a bicycle, Mello had gone crazy. Matt shook his head, crawling towards his laptop at the end of the bed and pulling it to his lap. He decided to ignore Mello until he finished rambling, since he was doing that pretty often for the past few days — saying weird shit, not remembering any of it.

"He was big," Mello continued. "Probably twice our size."

Matt straightened out his iPod's USB cable, still connected to the laptop, dangling like a tail.

"God will lead me through the pain," Mello intoned. "Blessed be."

Matt plugged his iPod to the cable. The screen flashed the battery low graphic, and then faded again.

"It had been so long since God had abandoned me," Mello's voice continued, hollow like he was delivering a sermon. "Years ago."

Matt looked up, frowning. What was this, Wammy's all over again?

"Ever since L died," Mello continued. "I hadn't heard Him since."

Matt tilted his head incredulously.

"But it makes sense for Him to come back now."

Matt watched as Mello's fingers rubbed his rosary beads. The veins under his skin glowed with the moonlight. Iridescent, almost.

"I burned to remember my vocation." Matt's eyes followed the bandages up to Mello's face. His eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling, mumbling, "I won't forget again."

Matt cut in, "God made a megalomaniac kill millions so that you could carry out your vocation?"

Mello sighed lightly, as if Matt was stupid for asking the queston. "We are all being tested," he explained. "That's why I am still alive."

"So you're saying you're God's chosen L."

In a knowing little voice, Mello answered, "Of course."

Huh. In some weird way, the logic parsed. How terrifying.

Mello threaded his fingers past the beads, touching the rosary on his chest. "My grandfather always said I was destined for great things."

Matt quirked a brow, fiddling with his dead iPod.

"Learning with him at the monastery made me strong in my faith," Mello said quietly. "I learned how to serve God the best way that I could."

"Mello," Matt interrupted. "Your grandfather was a Nazi."

"So?"

Matt scoffed. "So. He was a fucking Nazi."

Mello took a small breath, fiddling with the rosary. "He repented before his death."

Low bar. Matt cocked his head, looking back down at his iPod, at his finger caressing the scroll wheel.

"It doesn't matter. I knew he was a good man." Mello paused, taking a small breath, just as Matt's iPod came back to life. Black screen, silver apple. White menu. Fuck, that was bright. "All the monks touched children at the monastery, but he never did."

Matt twisted his features, looking up and squinting, the ghost of the iPod screen still floating in his vision. "What? They _touched_ children?"

"Yes," Mello responded blankly. "They'd bring children to the chapel and lock them up in the sacristy."

"What? Seriously?"

"I heard the boys cry at night."

"What about you?"

The radiator filled the noise between them instead, pumping the air until it was taut. Matt was about to start regretting asking, when Mello replied.

"No. Of course not."

Matt nodded, rubbing the scroll wheel on his iPod absentmindedly, listening to it click rapidly in his headphone. "Oh. Okay."

Jesus Christ, what an uncomfortable conversation.

Matt replaced his iPod back on the windowsill, taking out his remaining earphone to gently unravel the knots. In his mind, he saw Mello — young, small, smaller than they'd ever known one another to be, almost angelic in monk robes. He must have been innocent once. God-fearing and good.

That was before he knew him. Before anybody knew him, before Mello was even Mello. Another name.

How the fuck did they end up here?

Matt looked up from his earphones, back at the bed, and Mello's eyes were closed. Asleep already, somehow, while Matt was battling his own personal demons.

"Goodnight then," Matt mumbled to nobody. He shifted down until he was lying perpendicular to the bed, staring up at the window and the ceiling above, and replaced his headphones in his ears.

The moon was dulling, the sky fading to navy blue outside. Matt pressed Play.

* * *

Then, morning.

Baby blue between the blinds, headphones under his cheek. His Blackbird phone screamed bloody murder in the living room, calling his name like he owed it money.

He shot up on the mattress, glancing over at Mello. He looked asleep still, but with the ringtone outside, it probably wasn't going to last very long.

Jesus, why didn't Matt turn his phone on silent mode again?

Matt wiped at his drool, pushing himself onto the floor. He was off the ground before his phone repeated another ringtone loop, running towards the door and dashing to the couch.

He got to the phone with just a few seconds to spare, flipping it open and holding it to his ear. He rubbed the gunk out of his eyes as he answered, "Hello?"

"Hello," came a voice that sounded so robotic for a second Matt had thought he'd gotten connected to an automated response system. "Matthew."

A second later, recognition trickled into his cochlea like lukewarm water. Nobody else called him that.

"That's not my name," he mumbled, slapping the empty cigarette cartons on the floor to clear up a seat on the couch. "What do you want, Near?"

"Have you seen him?"

Matt cleverly asked, "Who?"

"You know who."

"Uh, nope."

"Mello."

Matt sat down and glanced back at the bedroom door, scratching his cheek. "No." He even added, "Isn't it too early for you to be calling? I was asleep."

"It's nine in the morning," Near replied stoically. "Mello has been missing for four days."

"Okay." And then, "What do you want me to do about it?"

"I know that both you and Mello are located in Los Angeles currently, even if this is a registered Arizona phone number."

Matt scoffed. "So? LA's a big place, dude. Does me being here mean I know where Paris Hilton is, too?"

"Who is that?"

Matt shook his head, shivering and grabbing his vest from off the couch to drape over his shoulders. "Nevermind."

"Matt," Near said, "I believe that you know Mello's current whereabouts because, frankly, I find it quite hard to believe that you two haven't been in contact."

Matt grabbed a cigarette from the coffee table, slipping the cig in his mouth, his words hard over the stick. "Yeah, and I find it hard to believe that you guys are _still_ doing this stupid rivalry thing."

"You two were quite close at Wammy's House," Near continued, ignoring Matt. "Knowing Mello's ways of working, he would have reached out to you by now."

"Nope."

"Allow me to catch you up to speed, then," Near intoned. "Mello detonated a large number of explosives at the mafia base to evade capture four days ago on November 11th."

Matt didn't respond, lighting up with a sharp click.

"Since then, he has been missing. All the other mafia members, including two imprisoned, are now deceased."

Matt raised an eyebrow silently, tossing the lighter back on the table.

"As you can see," Near continued impassively. "He may be in danger. He may even be dead."

Matt leaned his elbows on his knees, waiting for Near to finish.

"You're not responding because you already know this information, don't you?" Near concluded.

God, the Wammy's Elites were so fucking annoying — Matt always felt like he was a child, playing monkey in the middle with two very tall adults. As if Mello ever clued Matt in on anything.

"I don't know what the fuck you're on about," Matt replied, half honestly. "I haven't spoken to Mello since he left Wammy's. It sucks that he's missing, but I can't help you, dude."

"All right. Then let me just clarify one small thing." Near's voice took on a gloating tone, turning up like he was smiling. "Were you part of a hacker collective named Blackbird when the California mafia expunged their FBI profiles in April of last year?"

Fuck.

"Is it true that the username associated with your work had been requested to be the leader of that operation?"

The silence stretched on.

"I see." Near sobered up. "Matt, I've been keeping a close watch on all of the notable Wammy's alumni since 2007. There really is no use in keeping secrets. We are all working on the same side, after all."

Matt glanced back at the bedroom door again, staying quiet. He really needed to dispose of his phone. Get a new number. Nobody should use a burner for this long, anyway.

"I take that Mello must still be alive, then, since your silence means that you are trying to protect him."

Matt sighed. "You're full of complete shit, Near, and you know it."

"I'm not." Near switched gears, "Actually, I'm calling to inform you that the NPA may contact you within the next few days to ask about Mello's whereabouts. I doubt that you'd tell them regardless, but I still thought that you should be aware."

Matt blinked, frowning and stubbing his cigarette into his overflowing ashtray. He flicked a cigarette butt that tumbled out back onto the mound, balancing it carefully like a game of Jenga. "NPA?"

"The Japanese National Police Academy. From what I understand, Mello had the head officer killed in the November 11th explosion. While we are trying to confirm his safety, they are trying to track him down. He's a wanted criminal, after all."

Matt exhaled, scratching his head. The fucking SWAT members. "Sounds rough. I don't know."

"Based on the explosion, he must have sustained severe injuries. If this is the case, then I suggest that he take a break. He needn't worry about falling behind. He knows that I'm always willing to work together with him to catch Kira."

Matt snorted, taking out another cigarette. "Just sounds like you're trying to cheat, man."

"I am only being fair. And, the offer extends to you as well," Near added, and Matt rolled his eyes, lighting the next cig up. "The FBI is currently lacking in cybersecurity specialists. Your work would be highly appreciated, and highly necessary, for an international case like this one."

"Yeah, thanks, but no thanks."

"Please consider it." Near concluded his crank call pleasantly, "Good day, Matt."

The line went dead, leaving Matt to shake his head and throw his phone back onto the couch. Near was a fucking creep. Mello always obsessively hated him, but Matt, he, well — just didn't like him very much.

Matt finished his cigarette and snubbed it in the only available gap in his buttheap, walking back to his bedroom. He twisted the doorknob quietly, pushing the door open.

The stuffiness of the radiator pressed down on him like a shockwave. He threw the vest off his shoulders as he reentered, staring at the mattress as he closed the door.

Mello was still knocked out, his hair spilling over the bandages and splayed out on the pillow behind him like some sort of nimbus halo. His arms and legs were spread eagle, his crucifix pulled out of his collar and resting on the pillowcase.

Time for another shot. Matt sighed and took out the paper baggie from the bedside table, dumping the medicine bottles out until they rolled out. He'd gone down to the second bottle of morphine, and there was only one hit of loraz left. He wondered if Mello needed it now, but fuck, his burns still looked like raw meat, and he needed to heal.

More importantly, though, Matt needed to sleep.

Matt took out the syringe and filled it up with a mixture of both liquids. Blue stayed at the top, while the clear liquid stayed firmly at the bottom. A metaphor would apply here, but Matt was too tired to think of one.

Matt was a pro at this now. He didn't even think about how much he wanted the morphine. He kneeled onto the bed and slipped it through Mello's mouth deftly. Mello had learned to take it like a champ, too, swallowing quickly even while unconscious. Not a drop spilled.

After he was done, Matt replaced the syringe onto the bedside and then sighed, dropping his shoulders.

Fuck it. He wanted an actual bed. It didn't matter if Mello was beside him, since there was more than enough room on the mattress regardless. Matt lay down, shifting his back uncomfortably over the plastic wrap.

It hurt. His skin stuck to it, especially with the sweat, but it was better than the hard-ass floor. The only thing was that his pillow smelled like shit now: gauze and antiseptic. But Matt hadn't slept on a proper pillow for days, so beggars weren't going to choose.

* * *

Sometime later, sunlight splattered over the back of his eyelids. Matt swung his arm up to cover his face in a weak attempt of shade, the room toasty and hot. It must have been afternoon — Matt felt marginally better-rested.

Until a voice piped up from beside him, "Are you awake?"

"No," Matt grumbled, words muffled by his elbow.

"I can't sleep," Mello said. He shifted, and Matt only heard the sound of his rosary beads falling over each other, the sound of wood scraping along the wall. "I keep having these dreams."

Matt ignored him, turning his head away.

"You remember?" Mello asked, his head shifting against the pillow. "The chapel at Wammy's House."

Not really. Matt never went in there, so he didn't have any clear memories aside from the general location of the chapel doors, off the West Wing across from the main library.

"I always dream about that," Mello said softly.

Matt sighed. There was a time and place for reminiscing, and a few hours of sleep wasn't it. "Go to sleep."

"My head hurts."

"I gave you morphine already."

"Not enough."

"No junk until lunch time." Matt turned away, peeling his back off the Saran wrap as he readjusted. "Now goodnight."

The sun's rays grew brighter over his mattress, shining directly against the back of his eyelids until everything was a shade of flesh-pink. He'd barely even traversed the salty shores of slumber when he felt a warm brush of something ticklish against his cheek, shocking him back to life.

He flinched, his eyelids fluttering back open to see Mello watching him intently, his wrapped finger poised in the air.

Jesus. Mello looked horrifying. There was no amount of time that would make Matt get used to his eye holes. They stared at each other for a long moment before Matt grunted, "What?"

"You haven't shaved."

"Jesus." Matt swatted the air, scratching his cheek and turning away from him. "Shut up."

"How long has it been?"

"I'unno. I haven't had the time to shave, man, get off my ass."

"It suits you."

"Um," Matt mumbled, shifting, his back ungluing itself from the wrap. "Ow. Thanks?"

It wasn't exactly an invitation for Mello's finger to return, but Mello seemed to take it as one. His knuckles brushed against Matt's cheek softly again, almost like a caress, running up and down the length of his jaw. It was a light, feathery touch — ghostlike, the way that people pet birds and the furry little bodies of caterpillars. Almost warm and affectionate if Matt kept his eyes closed.

Felt nice.

The finger became a hand and ran into his hair. A full head-pat. It was cozy, lulling him into a deep hugging sleep. Matt let himself drift off like he was lying in the fields outside of Wammy's House under the sun, the grass blades tickling his skin.

Warm English air, smelling like lavender and wildflowers. Sunshine. A cool breeze. Days at Wammy's — he never really liked them, never really thought of them as much more than the unfortunate outcome of his better past. But today, it felt like summer again.

"Matt," Mello said softly, quietly. They were fourteen again, Mello's cotton sleeves tickling his cheekbone. The whirring of something like a helicopter overhead, flying through the blue skies.

"Hm," Matt mumbled.

"Are you thinking of something?"

The warmth from Matt's body faded as the helicopter morphed back to the radiator, as he realized that those weren't sleeves — they were bandages. Matt sighed, dredged back up to the shores of his shitty life.

"Wammy's," Matt answered, clearing his throat with the residue of sleep.

"Oh." Mello's finger disappeared from his face, though Matt wasn't sure if it was a good thing or not. He heard the crinkling of plastic wrap as Mello moved, trailing his hand back where it belonged on the mattress between them. "Did it feel nice?"

Matt nodded.

"Is that why you're hard?"

Matt blinked awake, the meaning of his words slowly depixelating in his brain. "What?"

"You're hard," Mello said bluntly.

Matt flushed, his blood running into cold sludge. It wasn't like he had any raunchy memories in the backfields by the riverbend, sleeping under the willow trees, but being straight off of dope, it just happened. Whatever it meant. Matt was sure it didn't mean anything.

"Shut up," he mumbled, turning away. "Fuck you, man."

"Did it feel nice?" Mello asked, his hand moving around the mattress again. And then, warmth.

Straight in between his legs, right against his groin.

"Hey," Matt snapped, grabbing Mello's wrist with faster reflexes than he knew he had. "What the fuck, Mello?"

He was expecting Mello to fight back, but Mello didn't respond. No resistance.

No movement at all.

Matt looked up, confused now. Mello's shoddily bandaged face stared back at him earnestly, without a hint of cruelty in his uncovered features. Something deeper than that was in his eyes, warm and liquid as he looked at him. His free hand was frozen in a weird spiderlike position, over Matt's lower body with crackling electricity.

He tilted his head. It was almost catlike if it didn't look creepy as fuck.

"Did it feel nice?" Mello asked again, soft like a secret, and his words took on a new meaning, the subservience sending a jolt down Matt's hips.

Wait. What the fuck was wrong with him? Mello looked almost like a blow up doll, with mouth holes and eye holes, and —

Another jolt shot down Matt's hips at the thought. Jesus Christ, Matt was _fucked_ up.

Mello didn't register Matt's inner turmoil, tugging his arm free from Matt's grasp. Matt could barely react before the warmth returned, this time with pinpoint focus.

Matt gasped and looked down at his pj pants, tented into a humiliating lump of _I'm a fucktard creep_, and Mello's hand, curled around it gently.

Oh God. Oh no.

Mello's hand engulfed him, squeezing. Matt shut his eyes, out of fear or out of horror he wasn't sure.

Then Mello moved, and Matt thought: _I'm fucked_.

Warmth bloomed down Matt's legs, up his spine, into his fingertips. It'd been ages since someone else had touched him, and his body was making it damned sure he knew it. Mello shifted to get a better angle, the sound of fabric and plastic wrap loud over the hum of the radiator.

Matt was frozen. His arms and legs refused to move. The clouds outside shifted over the sun as if offering them some privacy, the walls growing dark and cool. Mello didn't stop still, his movements building in intensity. Matt's breaths started to spill over as Mello hooked his fingers around his length and tilted his head to get a better look, the clinical smell of bandages and antiseptic filling Matt's nostrils.

Matt bit his lip. Anything to stop a reaction. He thought about his dead mom, Mr. Hands, the BME Pain Olympics, but Mello let out a tight little exhale from the back of his throat, and another dash of electricity shot through Matt's hips, straight into Mello's fist.

Jesus, Matt could hear him breathing heavily beside him. Mello was enjoying it. Mello was all the way in.

And Matt… well, he cracked open an eye guiltily, glancing down.

Mello's chipped black fingernails worked over his pants, rubbing him intently, and it made something stir in his gut. God, whatever the fuck this was, looking seemed to make it so much more real. Matt shook his hair back over his eyes, holding in his breaths.

Mello's hand sped up in response, pulling harder. It hurt through two layers of fabric. Matt's legs shifted over the crinkling plastic, knocking into Mello's knee, and Mello moved closer, his sharp little elbow pressing into Matt's hip.

Jesus, it felt really good, goddamnit, it felt _good_, and Matt didn't want it to stop, which was a horrifying thought. Fuck it, let him have this, they were already there, and —

Matt gasped sharply as pleasure exploded through his hips and against Mello's warmth. Mello's hand didn't even leave — he just stopped. As if he wasn't expecting it to end so soon.

Then, nothing.

Oh fuck.

Matt breathed out slowly, trying to control his heart from pounding, so loud that he was sure Mello could hear it past the radiator. His legs felt sticky. His ears rang. The fabric clung to his thighs from the sweat and the cum, and Matt dropped his leg back onto the mattress loudly, staring up at the popcorn ceiling in shock.

What the fuck just happened?

Beside him, Mello's breaths slowed into something deep and heavy, almost like a snore. Reluctantly, Matt looked down, assessing the damage.

"Oh fuck," Matt whispered. Mello had fallen back asleep, his hand still resting limply over Matt's dick.


	18. Chapter 18

God wasn't there when the angel tore his skin. No face. Black wings. It flew away, the fire burning bright and heavy in the moonlight. His bones became skin, and his skin became ash. His arm was itchy.

Mello opened his eyes and his blood ran cold.

He was in a small room with no windows.

Black shadows shifted in the night, tickling the sky. Crawling like hands. In the darkness, the walls were brown, purple, black, spinning around him like a sick carnival ride.

Mello's eyes darted. Humming machinery. A lightbulb, off. Low ceiling.

Where the _fuck_ was this?

Mello's skin was damp with sweat. He was stuck to his back like a fly in honey trap, his arm itching like hundreds of ants inside of his flesh. He scratched at his skin, and pain broke through like a cut, slicing and slicing.

Mello pulled back with a hiss. Goddamnit, what the fuck was going on?

He wasn't at the base. He was bandaged up in a room he didn't know. He couldn't remember anything, and—

_Boom_.

A gunfight. Several dozen television screens flickering icily off the back of someone's head. Bullets in their back, in their twisted neck.

Mello remembered a gasmask in the drawer. Thinking, _now or never_.

He was on the ground after, dirt caked to his face. The earth smelled like smoke. His mouth was full of rocks.

The notebook was gone. He couldn't find it. It was on fire. He was on fire.

Where was everybody?

Mello opened his eyes, his pulse skyrocketing. It didn't matter.

He had to get back.

Mello pushed his numb shoulder off of the sticky bedspread, ignoring the pain that shot down his arm. Plastic shifted under his fingers as he moved, rolling onto his side, and slid off the bedspread with a thud.

He looked up. Mirrored closet door. Another shut door with a brass knob, behind a bedside table overflowing with wires.

Recognition settled a moment later. Why the fuck was he in Matt's room?

Mello ignored it, getting on all fours as he crawled towards the door, illuminated by pale grey light through the cracks.

Suddenly, the room went quiet. Mello ducked, laying his arms flat on the ground like a corpse.

Someone was outside.

Mello heard it as he lay on the hardwood, his breaths heavy and mingling with the faint sound of the TV on the other side of the door. Energetic voices laughed tinnily in the silence.

The radiator behind him kicked back into life.

Mello exhaled slowly, pushing himself up by his elbows. He crawled closer to the door, groping blindly until he felt the grooves of the wooden frame under his fingers. His body was heavy when he pulled himself up to his knees. Shoulder tight, arm sore.

He reached out to grab the brass knob and twisted with all his might.

The door fell open slowly, grey light turning blue as it flowed from the crack onto the low mattress. Mello shifted, lining his eye with the crack in the door, and peered outside.

The living room outside was dark. Somebody was sitting there on the couch, visible only from his shadow. He was hunched over, barely moving.

Dead?

Mello squinted. No, there was movement. There was smoke. The person shifted, and Mello saw a cigarette pinched between two thin fingers. A short and rough cough followed.

It was Matt.

Good. Mello was safe.

Mello gripped the doorway as he pulled himself up to his feet, his arms shaking. His joints were weak like heated steel, buckling under his weight as he tried to stand up. He felt like he hadn't moved in months.

He slowed down and restarted, waiting for the blood to settle in his feet. He pulled himself up off of his knees, leaning against the doorframe for balance.

Another few minutes passed until Mello tried to move.

He pushed the door open, and took a shaking step. Then another. The floor was cool and dirty under his bare feet. Mello steadied himself against the wall as he dragged his body out into the living room, into Matt's line of sight.

The TV light flickered boldly beside him, the heaviness lodged in the back of his head tripling in weight.

Mello stopped. He closed his eyes, sliding his fingers against his temples. Jesus Christ, he needed some Tylenol.

"Holy shit," Matt's voice muttered. "Mello?"

Mello looked up carefully. Matt was moving to get up from the couch, his face curious and shocked. He was surrounded by empty cigarette cartons.

"Sit," Mello rasped quickly, and Matt stalled. Mello jerked at the couch with a finger and cleared his throat. "Stay. I need to talk to you."

Matt blinked and nodded, slinking back into his seat.

Good enough for now. Mello pushed himself off of the wall and ambled to the kitchen cabinets, grabbing onto the handles in the dark. He pulled them open forcefully, the doors slamming against the walls.

The first shelf was empty. The second shelf only held cereal and a small cereal box toy. Mello slammed the cupboard shut, pulling open another cupboard to find one fork and two mismatched knives. The next cupboard, a pair of scissors and some twine.

Jesus Christ, the junkie bastard really didn't have any fucking Tylenol. Mello slammed the cupboard shut, knees popping as he bent to rummage through the shelves under his sink. Why did a kitchen this small need so many damned drawers anyway?

"What are you looking for?" Matt's voice called from the living room.

Mello threw aside an empty dish detergent. "Tylenol."

"First shelf on the right."

Mello kicked the cabinet shut, pulling himself up to open the first shelf again. A bottle of painkillers was tucked behind the hinge, impossible to see on first glance. Mello snatched it in his hand and looked around the kitchenette, scowling.

There was nothing to drink from. All he found was an overflowing sink, dirty pots and dirtier utensils glinting in cold TV light.

Mello turned around, heading to the living room dizzily. "Get up."

Matt frowned. "What?"

Mello jerked his thumb behind him, the pills rattling in his fist. "Go get me some water."

Matt's frown deepened. He stood up from the couch and walked to the kitchen with his tail between his legs, and Mello moved to the vacant seat to sit.

He popped open the pill bottle with his thumb, tapping white tablets into his palm. Four. They looked chalky. He didn't think he could dry-swallow them whole.

Dishes clanged in the tiny kitchen as Mello thought. The faucet roared, the pipes in Matt's apartment walls creaking in unison. Mello closed his fist and looked up at the television screen, and immediately looked away.

Christ, it was bright. The newscaster's dress burned in the back of his eyelids, pulsating as he dropped his head. His eyes wouldn't stop watering. He couldn't tell if his eyes were opened or closed.

Fucking Hell, he couldn't_ see_.

Mello's migraine wrapped around the back of his neck as he swallowed the lump in his throat. He couldn't see, he couldn't move, he couldn't talk. His entire body was failing him and Mello didn't fucking know why.

He inhaled slowly. Anything to keep his fists from pummelling the first thing in sight.

He didn't think he had the energy for it anyway.

Matt's heavy boots clomped into the living room. He set down a glass on the coffee table with a clink, and said, "Here."

Mello grit his teeth, clenching and unclenching his weak fists.

"You need anything else?"

Mello shook his head limply, exhaling as he reached over for the glass from the coffee table. Pills to mouth, water to tongue. The glass rattled against his teeth as he drank.

He was exhausted already. But he couldn't go back to bed and rest. Mello looked up from his hands as he replaced the glass, his vision blurry when he stared up at Matt.

The news program ended, bleeding into a commercial. Neither of them spoke. The bright television light lit the tips of Matt's reddish hair on fire, standing up messily from his head like he hadn't combed or showered in days.

Mello spoke first. "What the fuck happened?"

Matt looked away like he knew. "Uh…"

Mello's eyes were watering from the strain, but he didn't blink. "Tell me."

"I dunno," Matt mumbled, scratching his jaw, his eyes settling everywhere but Mello's face. "_You_ tell me."

"I'm fucking asking."

Matt's eyes darted back, fear simmering in his tired expression. "What?" he mumbled guiltily. "I said I don't know."

"Then where the _fuck_ is everybody?"

Matt blinked. "Oh," he said dumbly, scratching his jaw again. "Uh, they're fine."

"They're fine," Mello repeated.

"Yeah, I mean. They're not fine. They're dead. But they're not—"

Mello's heart stopped. "They're _dead_?"

"Yeah."

"How many?"

"Everyone."

"How'd they die? How'd they _all fucking die_?"

"Chill out," Matt answered quickly, putting up his hands in surrender. "It's okay. I'll find you something to eat."

Mello could barely talk without his voice wavering. "How'd they fucking _die_, Matt?"

"Okay, okay," Matt answered, sighing. "Kira killed them. The Japanese got the rest. Shot 'em to hell and back."

What Mello wanted to hear the least. "Then where's the notebook?"

Matt frowned. "I don't know, man. Uh… no, I don't know. I think…"

"I don't care what you think," Mello cut in, his voice tearing from the disuse. From the flames burning up his chest, wrapping around his throat in a chokehold. He couldn't breathe. "Tell me where it is. Where I can fucking find it."

"I said I don't know," Matt snapped. "I was kind of preoccupied, man. So I don't know where it is."

"Fucking Christ," Mello uttered, closing his eyes. "What are you even good for?"

No answer. Mello knew Matt had nothing useful to say.

Mello's blood surged through his veins and pounded against his skull as he looked down, breathing shakily.

He'd lost his men. He'd lost the notebook. He'd lost the base, he'd lost everything he set up for the past two years since he met Pavone in that club.

The explosion was only supposed to take out the mansion and some of the supplies — things they could make up later when they found a new hideout. It wasn't supposed to take out the whole Los Angeles _casa nostra_, or reduce his men to nothing but rubbery black corpses.

The sound of Matt stomping his boots loud over the hardwood jerked Mello back to reality. He glanced up from his hands, seeing Matt grabbing a cigarette box, jittery.

"Wow," Matt laughed, circling the living room aimlessly. "That's rich."

"Matt," Mello interrupted. He didn't have time for this. "Shut up."

Matt stormed back in front of him, the metal on his boots clanging. "Me? Shut up?"

"Stop," Mello answered, agitated. "Let me think."

"About how you're a dick?"

"About what the fuck I'm going to do now that everybody is _dead_," Mello snapped, lowering his eyes to the floor again. "Stop acting like a fucking child, Matt."

"Fuck you," Matt shot back, his voice barely audible. "Five whole fucking days, and this is what I get in return."

Mello tilted his head, his blood cooling down in his veins as the words sunk in. Matt was seething, his face twisted into something ugly.

"What did you say?" Mello asked slowly.

"You should be a little nicer to your fucking friends. Or coworkers. Lackeys. Whatever," Matt grumbled in reply, sucking smoke from his cigarette as he flicked ash into a mound of cigarettes. "Just a thought."

Mello swallowed and repeated, "Five days?"

"Yeah. What, did you forget?"

Mello stayed silent. Matt's expression softened as he realized the answer, his eyes darting all over Mello's features, his mouth falling open.

Five days. Mello'd been dead for five days.

It didn't matter where the notebook was. The base's structure had already gone cold and black. For all he knew, the LAPD had found the notebook in the ruins and the rubble. If it wasn't here in Matt's apartment, then it wasn't anywhere at all.

Mello had no way of reaching out to Rod's men now. He had no position without Rod in Los Angeles. No name. No place to stand when he was on his own.

Mello had lost. He'd lost all of it. There was no way to win now.

Matt looked away, his boots squeaking on the floor as he mumbled, "I didn't know."

"Matt," Mello said steadily. He lifted himself off the couch, his hands gripping the sofa arms as he feigned steadiness. "Do you still have the surveillance footage from the mansion?"

Matt nodded.

"Set it up for me when I get back," Mello said, looking at the dirty floor. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Okay," Matt answered hollowly.

The fire in Mello's chest left nothing behind. Only cold black ash and scorched flesh.

* * *

Mello's wounds were worse than he'd expected. Raw to touch and painful to move. His vision remained cloudy in his peripheral vision in his left eye, and he had to suppress the raging urge to scratch his burns whenever his body itched.

The footage of the night of the explosion hurt to rewatch.

He didn't remember most of it. Not how his men collapsed around him in the base, or how he found himself in the control room only minutes afterwards.

Not even Soichiro Yagami, staring at him earnestly with his notebook in his hands, having performed the eye trade sometime before their meeting. He said his birth name, spelling it out letter-by-letter.

Now the NPA had his name. Something nobody else knew in the world today.

Mello had found Soichiro's obituary on Nikkei and the Los Angeles Times from four days ago. _Killed in the line of duty defending Kira_. Soichiro Yagami was a decent man, but Mello didn't mourn his death when Jose emptied the clip into his back.

He had a few more days now that Jose secured his escape.

Snydar had been cuffed since the last raid, which meant that Kira had used someone else in the mafia to get to the base somehow. Mello didn't have time to pour over the footage to find out who. Especially not since everybody was dead.

What mattered was that Kira sent the NPA like an army over to the base to storm Mello and his men out. The Japanese police force was working together with him. That much was certain.

Now all Mello needed was to prove it.

Without the mafia's resources, it would be hard. But not impossible. Mello still had contacts strewn here and there, and he had an internet specialist on his side to find any information that he needed remotely.

He didn't need ten men to locate the NPA and the notebook again. The police were stupid enough to work for Kira. Surely they were stupid enough to fall for Mello's plans, too.

Mello's arm started to itch and burn again. He needed better painkillers than this. He needed something to cover his blurry eye. He needed a hell of a lot more ointment than just Silvadene and a roll of gauze.

He should call Mario tomorrow and stock up. The doctor still owed Mello a few favors, after all.

There was a rap on the door.

Mello grunted in response, staring at his laptop screen. He'd hidden himself in Matt's room after rewatching the footage, and Matt had been kind enough to let him. Now, the bedroom door eased open and Matt stood in the doorway, his goggles strung around his neck and his hands fidgeting.

They hadn't talked since their fight, and a tepid tension still lingered between them, crackling when either of them tried to say anything. This time, Matt spoke first. "Hey."

Mello didn't look up from his laptop screen. "What?"

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"You found the morphine?"

Mello nodded. "Yeah."

And he was going to throw the rest of it out tonight.

"Good." Matt paused, and scratched himself. "Uh.. so I got an email from the NPA guys a few days ago."

Mello stopped. "You did?"

"Yeah. They were trying to contact me through the Wammy's email server."

The NPA were more desperate than Mello'd initially believed then. The past five days must have been productive for them. Mello lowered his laptop screen and looked over, nodding for Matt to continue.

"I think it was a mass email," Matt said, leaning against the doorframe, his hands still fidgeting. "They told anybody at Wammy's to reach out to them if they knew about your whereabouts."

"And did you respond?"

"No. Of course not."

Mello nodded. "Check the server to see if anybody else did. Keep a copy of the email on a drive in case Roger wipes it."

The name slipped out of Mello's mouth before he thought twice about it, hanging in the air like a rotten smell. Neither of them had talked about Wammy's at all. Neither of them should have remembered the name of the headmaster when they were under his care.

Matt shook his head. "No one else did. Near reply all'd it. Said it was a phishing scam and told everyone to ignore it."

"_Near_?"

"Yeah. He's trying to find you."

Near. How convenient. He had no reason to look for Mello. They always went their separate ways, played their separate games. The only way that Near would have wanted to contact him was if there was an emergency, but Mello had no wish to see him even then.

The only time he wanted to see Near was at his funeral so that he could piss on his grave.

"How'd you know?" Mello asked, looking steadily at Matt's face.

Matt looked away quickly, shifting his hands behind his back. "Well, he called me yesterday," he admitted, a hint sheepishly.

Mello caught on. "Are you working with him?"

Matt looked up surprised, his eyes widening. "No, no," he said. "Jesus, fuck no."

"Then why would he call you?"

"He was just making rounds. Calling all the Wammy's kids to tell them not to talk to the NPA and to see if they knew where you were." Matt shrugged, ducking his head. "I didn't tell him anything. Seriously."

"Did Near ask if we were working together?"

Matt shrugged, his boots squeaking on the ground as he shuffled. "Yeah, he asked," he answered vaguely.

"Then he has proof," Mello said coolly, tearing his gaze away.

Matt didn't respond for a long moment, and that was confirmation enough.

"Well, uh," Matt mumbled awkwardly, sighing as he slapped his hand on the doorway. "Anyway, I'm gonna go sleep now. You can take the bed."

Mello jerked his head. "Thanks."

Matt paused for a beat before clearing his throat. "Uh… you're welcome I guess. Night."

Mello nodded dismissively, and Matt closed the door behind him. Mello heard as his boots walked back to the living room, and then the sound of the television screen zipping shut.

It was quiet now. The radiator was off. Mello exhaled, closing his eyes.

They both knew that Near never made accusations unless he had the evidence. Near was using the information he'd gleaned to taunt them, to use their friendship at the House as a sort of bargaining chip.

Near's actions were threatening, and the NPA were clawing at his throat. Mello was on thin ice.

Having Matt on his team could quickly become a liability at this rate. Matt needed to be undetectable in order to be effective. But Mello had just lost all of his men in one night, and he couldn't risk losing the only person he had left.

If Near knew about Matt, it meant he could leak the information to the NPA. If the NPA knew about Matt, then he could become a threat.

Kira would use him to get closer to Mello, and Mello would have no choice but to kill him before it was too late.

Mello shook his head, gnashing his teeth. He needed to make his next move now. His passivity would leave him cornered and he didn't have enough time to hatch an escape plan.

He needed to leave for New York City tonight.


	19. Chapter 19

The lock disengaged with a beep. Entryway lights flooded, the orange glow on the linoleum floor bright and sharp. The agent took off her jacket and hung it on the coat rack.

Hal Bullook. Twenty-eight years old. Single. Former CIA agent until late last year. Her keen intuition and strong sense of conviction caught Near's eye in early 2009.

She was one of the three remaining agents on board.

She hung her shoulder holster to the rack. Her gun stayed inside, docile. She sighed to herself softly and her car keys jingled as she threw them on the entryway table, the metal clanging against glass. She walked to the living room, her heels loud.

In the dark, Mello lounged in her velvet armchair and waited.

He'd been there since early morning. Scoured her small apartment for bugs and cameras, and in their absence, waited for her return. It was nighttime and the curtains were drawn. The apartment was cold, quiet, empty.

She moved into her kitchenette and turned the range hood light on.

A silver kettle on the stovetop sat waiting. She turned the dial of the stove, and fire roared beneath the grate. Crackling and filling her little living room. She pulled off her rings and set them on the countertop, turning on the faucet.

The water ran. Mello reached over and pulled on the lamp chain with a sharp click.

The sound travelled past the faucet's whoosh and the clock's ticks. He watched as Hal's shoulders tensed in anticipation, as she tried not to react.

She turned the faucet off and reached over to the washcloth, wiping her hands. "Who's there?" she called out.

"Hal Bullook." Mello leaned back and crossed his legs, lifting his chocolate bar to the side of his mouth. _Snap_. "I don't think we've met."

She turned around, their eyes meeting across the length of her apartment.

Her eyes darted. From the chocolate bar to his scar, to his hair, his boots, his jiggling foot. Her lips closed into a thin red line.

Cold and neutral, she said, "You're Mello."

Mello bowed his head. "The one and only."

She was nonplussed. She threw the washcloth back onto the counter, taking slow steps to the kitchen island in front of her, and leaned on it with her palms. "What are you doing here?"

"I think we have a lot of things in common." Mello tilted his head, watching her. "Don't you?"

She shrugged. "Not really."

Mello quirked a brow.

"You're anti-Kira," he said, hanging his chocolate bar from his lips. Staring her down, watching as she straightened her back. "I'm trying to catch him. See?"

"I'm working for Near," she responded coldly. "Your enemy."

Mello chuckled, shaking his head and looking away to her curtains. "And you've never worked for your enemy before?"

She replied, "No."

"I'm not sure I believe that," Mello said, swinging both feet onto the floor. His heels clacked against the wood.

Her gaze followed as he walked across her Persian rug, and onto her floorboards again. Slow enough that his headache didn't spill over the flimsy cover of his painkillers.

He reached the other side of the kitchen island across from her, neither one breaking eye contact. Up close, her face was wrinkled, caked with heavy makeup. Her eyelashes were thick and clumpy little spider legs.

"What are you talking about?" she asked.

"You're a rat," Mello said, tilting his head and leaning close to her. "Aren't you?"

She stepped away, frowning. "No," she responded.

"Then what about when you were in the CIA?"

She shook her head, leaning her back against the oven handle. Keeping a couple feet of distance between the two of them. She was unarmed and she knew he wasn't.

"I've never been a rat," she said, resolutely. Like she believed it too.

Mello lifted his chocolate to his mouth, licking the tip. Hal looked away first, crossing her arms.

"Then," Mello asked, licking his lips. "Would James Bullook say the same as you?"

She looked up like she'd been struck across the face. "James?"

Mello leaned forward, pushing his gloved hands over the counter. The leather squeaked as it dragged along the marble.

"Your little brother." He flashed a smile. "You knew he was Pavone's mole, didn't you?"

She shifted, her mouth reworking the words about to leave them. "Only after he passed."

"So you're saying," Mello said, propping his face up with his hand, the counter cutting up against his torso. "You didn't know he was trafficking girls from over the Mexico border for years."

Hal shook her head slowly, her ice blue eyes widening. "Not until afterwards," she said.

"That's funny. You were one of the five active investigators on the human trafficking cases in New York City. You must be a really shitty investigator, then." Mello pushed himself up by the elbows, his smile fading into nothing. "Or a liar."

Hal frowned, perplexity forming across her face. "What are you implying, Mello?"

"You knew." Mello stared at her sharply, unwavering. "You let him do it."

"What?" she spluttered, as if offended.

"Having him there meant you cemented at least twenty arrests of men under him," Mello continued, pulling himself upright, chilling his voice down. "Those arrests got you your little Secret Service job afterwards. Didn't it?"

She scoffed. "And?"

"And James still stayed in the FBI, even with all the evidence against him. You got your promotion after leaving him untouched. All was well." Mello paused, tilting his head. "Except for all those girls you let down, of course."

Hal stared at him evenly. Taking in his threat, drinking it in slowly. Assessing the damage.

For a moment, it looked like she'd buckle.

It passed.

She shook her head and turned away, moving towards her cupboards.

"Near was right," she grumbled, swinging open a door. Identical rows of white mugs lined up to the walls. She grabbed one and closed it, placing it onto the countertop. "You really are something."

She reached over to another cupboard and grabbed a green teapot off the shelf, leaving it on the stove.

"You have some nerve," she continued, shaking her head and pulling open a cabinet by her hip. "Some nerve to suggest what you're suggesting."

"Then you wouldn't care if I asked Near to open an investigation on you."

She stalled.

"He wouldn't listen to you," she shot back. She didn't sound sure.

"I think Near would," Mello replied, cracking another piece of his chocolate as he watched her. "He trusts me, after all. He knows I'm not a liar."

She exhaled, pushing the cabinet back slowly, her shoulders tensing, her hand clenching.

"Have you ever been to prison, Hal?" Mello asked, his eyes trained on her back.

Hal shook her head.

"Accessory to trafficking, obstruction of justice, conspiracy, treason. And you're a federal agent, Hal. You're looking at a life sentence."

Nothing. The clock ticked quietly. The fire sizzled, dancing against the grate.

"Are you sure you could survive that long without your..." Mello's eyes hovered over her box of tea leaves, "Ginseng granules?"

The drawer rolled closed, thudding against the shelf. She stayed still.

Mello knew that he'd been right.

It took a rat to know one. He could see James' cleverness inside of her, cunning and tactical. Pavone was picky, and he favored James almost as much as he liked Mello.

Hal was too smart to say anything else.

"How can you sleep at night, Hal?" Mello continued, "After you turned your back on so many girls?"

Silence for a moment. Hal looked over her shoulder, her eyes piercing past her heavy fringe.

The claws were out.

"How can you?" she spat. "When you killed the man who trusted you most?"

A sting lodged itself in Mello's chest. Shrapnel from a nearby explosion. "What do you know about that?"

"You're no fucking saint," she continued, her fist clenched. "So why don't you—"

A whistle burst through the air.

Hal started. Mello's eyes darted to the noise, steam billowing out of the kettle's spout to the range hood, screaming for attention in the silence. She turned back, grabbing the kettle's handle and moving it from the stovetop.

She turned off the dial and the fire fizzled out underneath the grate. She busied herself with making her tea. She filled up her teapot, her other hand held carefully at her hip.

Out of sight. She had a weapon.

The bitch was dangerous. She knew more than she was letting on. The lid of the teapot sang as she replaced it, setting a timer on her microwave clock. Mello wrapped his chocolate and put it away, glowering at her unflinchingly. Watching her every move.

She glanced back at him when she was finished. "What?"

"Why are you holding a knife?"

"Because you have a gun."

Mello didn't move, his arms tight at his sides. Waiting for her to fold. "Put it away."

Hal stared at him for a beat longer before she shook her head and opened the cupboard again, tossing her little kitchen knife inside to match an endless amount of the same silver cutlery.

"There." She turned around and jerked her head. "Now put your gun where I can see it."

Mello's glare stayed harsh as he reached behind his back to pull his gun from his waistband. It rustled against his coat as he took it out. The metallic clunk on the kitchen counter rang loudly.

They stared at each other. The seconds on her microwave clock counted backwards, flipping in the stillness of the kitchen. Hal looked at his scar openly, tracing over it with her eyes almost unconsciously.

Mello grit his teeth.

She sensed it and looked away swiftly, shooting her glance around her apartment. "What do you want?" she asked finally.

Mello shook his hair over his eye. "I want everything Near knows."

"You want me to be a spy."

Mello shrugged, crossing his arms. "You're used to it, aren't you?"

"Fine," Hal answered, her eyes still trained on her bowl of fake fruits. "What else?"

"Tell me what you know about me and Pavone."

Hal blinked, caught off-guard. She was thinking something, but she kept her face blank. "He died in 2008," she said gingerly. "You ran after that."

Mello frowned. James died before Pavone did. He and Mello only overlapped at the beginning of Mello's time as a soldier.

"How'd you learn that?" he asked carefully. "The SPK?"

"No. They don't know anything."

"Then how?"

Hal still avoided looking at him, her arms crossed across her chest, leaning against her counter. Her eyes were blank as she chewed her lower lip. Her heeled boot tapped against the porcelain as she thought.

"There's a half a million dollar hit over your head in New York," she said finally, pushing herself off the counter as she reached up to the microwave. She hit the stop button, a second away from 0. "At least, there was last year, when you left for LA."

"Everybody who used to work with Pavone is dead," Mello responded, narrowing his eyes.

Hal poured the tea from her teapot into her bland white mug. "The mob's expanded since you left," she replied blankly.

Of course. Crime never really died. Mello looked up. "Where are they now?"

"Brooklyn." She put down the teapot, the ceramic ringing emptily. "But they move around."

Mello glared at Hal's mug. With the LA mafia dead, the New York mob was eager to fill in the vacuum. The hit must be worth more now.

"I think you're better off staying here," Hal continued, blowing against the steaming tea, "If they find you, you're a dead man."

Mello sucked his teeth, inhaling sharply.

It wasn't like Los Angeles, where Kira needed a name and a face to kill. In New York, all anybody needed was an alibi before putting a bullet in his brain. Killing Mello would be swift. Easy.

* * *

Hal was never at her apartment. She slept in the SPK building in the quarters above the office. She had one day off in the week because Near didn't like to be alone. He was scared of the dark and needed the company.

The evening that Mello met her, she had taken the night off. Watering her plants was a weekly affair. Near was strict but he had a soft spot for animals and shrubbery. He let another agent feed his cat every evening; he only kept his commander in chief by his side.

It was clear that Near was a child on the battleground. His soldiers were nothing but babysitters.

Nothing had changed since the time Mello knew him best.

The apartment was a welcome change from the dusty squalor Matt had called a home. Mello could find clean plates in the cupboards and unexpired food in the freezer. Hal let him take her seldom used living room as long as he didn't bother her.

Hal asked him about his burns, but he didn't answer. She said, "Stay inside, don't move." She said, "Keep it bandaged, so you won't risk infection."

Mello didn't like to answer enemy requests, so he ignored her. He had his own way of doing things. He wasn't like Near.

She let him be after that and went to sleep. Mello took the couch and turned off all the lights.

Now it was morning.

Mello was awake as the sun's beams trickled in through red curtains, eating his morning chocolate bar. Hal lived on the seventh floor in lower Manhattan, but the windows were thick. Her apartment was always quiet.

Hal was in the kitchen, standing at her fridge. Her perfume carried into the living room.

Mello had taken a mixture of painkillers and he was waiting for it to kick in. He needed something stronger than Tylenol so Mario gave him a concoction. His burns had stopped itching as much with a thin layer of Silvadene.

He was staring at the laptop screen with his regular notebook opened in his lap, reading the events that had transpired during his five-day death.

He found out that Kira was working with the NPA.

The Japanese police admitted this to Near the night after the explosion. They told him that Kira had sent the task force his own notebook so that they could work together to get Mello's notebook back.

Plastic crinkled. The lever on Hal's toaster creaked. The television screen phased on, the quiet voice of the morning news mumbling monotonously.

Mello glanced up at Hal. Her back was turned, pulling out a plate from her cupboard.

Another stack of plates, all white. Half of them were probably unused, collecting dust in the back.

Mello sneered, taking another bite off the corner of his chocolate bar and looking down to his notebook.

The NPA returned the original notebook after the night they stole it back. In exchange, they got to keep the mafia's death note.

Kira didn't kill them. Kira let them be. No tricks, no smoke, no mirrors.

Why would Kira do that?

Mello shook his head as the cupboards kept opening and closing, her cabinets sliding and shutting, the television droning on. His meds weren't kicking in fast enough. Did it take that many fucking utensils to make breakfast?

The toaster dinged. Mello propped his forehead in his hand, and exhaled.

The NPA's excuse was a load of bullshit. Mello knew this, Near knew this, Hal knew this. And if the NPA didn't, they were as useless as Mello feared.

Kira and L were working together.

The scrape of jam over toast. A utensil _tink_ing against another one of Hal's assembly line of identical white plates.

Mello scowled.

He had known L and Kira were working together since the last raid that moved them to Soto Street Junction. L was the reason Hoope killed himself last month. There were two explanations:

One, L was using the NPA as his smokeshield, and they believed him.

Two, the NPA was working with Kira.

The barstool screeched loudly over the linoleum tile.

Mello looked up again, irritated now. Hal had a piece of toast held carefully in her hand, strawberry jam spread messily over the top. She took a loud, ravenous bite.

Mello slid lower on the velvet armchair and propped his feet up over Hal's glass coffee table, his heels thudding.

Hal looked over and frowned.

Mello crossed his ankles, another _thud_ on the glass, and watched as she narrowed her eyes before looking back down.

Kira and L worked together. There were two possibilities. The NPA knew, or they didn't.

Soichiro made a deal for the eyes. He'd spelled out Mello's birth name to his face, slow and steady, so that the rest of the NPA knew. He had the notebook in his hands, writing half of it down. He told him to surrender.

But he didn't finish. He let Mello live.

He had sabotaged Kira's plan at the base, and he died later that night.

Did he sabotage it willingly, in a show of justice? Or had he just not known that L wanted him dead?

Then—

The barstool scraped against the linoleum tile again, loud and heavy. Hal was glaring at him as they made eye contact, her little white plate of crumbs in her hands.

She looked away, tossing the plate into her sink, and walked back to the bathroom.

Mello shook his head and dangled the chocolate bar at his mouth, the corner pressed against his lips. He stared down at the notebook, at his handwriting.

Soichiro was a proud enough man to do what he thought was right at the eleventh hour. But the other NPA members hadn't shot him dead when they burst through the main door.

There had been five others. They killed Jose. They had Mello cornered.

Why didn't they kill him?

It was unlikely that all of the members had decided to go against Kira and stage a coup. If they did, then they would have all ended up dead by the 12th.

Only Soichiro's name was in the obituaries.

That must have meant that...

Mello paused his thought as Hal reappeared in the hallway, a fresh coat of red lipstick lining her lips. She stomped past the living room to the entryway hall. Before she reached the door, she stopped.

"Mello," she said, breaking their hours-long silence.

Mello looked up, rolling his head in annoyance. "Hm."

"Don't break anything," she said sternly. "I'll tell Near you were here if you do."

Mello rolled his eyes, looking away. A mother and a snitch. Maybe that was why Near liked her so goddamned much.

Mello looked back down at his notebook as Hal walked away. Her gun clanged against the coatrack as she took it off to put on her holster. Her coat rustled.

The door slammed shut.

Finally. Some peace and quiet.

The television droned on, but Mello let it be. He gripped his chocolate bar, hooking a corner of his teeth over it, and looked up at the computer screen.

It was loaded on the NPA's official page. Their crest stamped over the header at the top. _Help stop crime. Help support the cause_. _Work for the NPA today!_

Japan was largely pro-Kira, which was why the NPA members were rogues. They'd started their own investigation under the original L's lead.

They didn't know. They trusted the original L, and they trusted the current one, too.

Were they really such idiots? Why were they so confident in the current L's lead?

Mello crinkled his chocolate wrapper into a ball in his gloved fist, narrowing his eyes as he tossed it to the floor. L had taken the name of his hero and slaughtered it. He'd taken the confidence of the Japanese police and used it to help Kira's reign of terror.

So the NPA were nameless soldiers. L was the gatekeeper to Kira's identity. Game on.

* * *

In the afternoon, Mello made himself a piece of toast. Hal had chocolate spread in the fridge, along with a host of other jams, all for her morning breakfasts.

Her toaster was high quality. What came out was fine and crunchy. Mello didn't eat much bread, but he could appreciate her luxury goods.

There was a press conference from President Sairas in a few minutes. Mello busied himself as the reporters on NBC chattered incessantly, pacing around her apartment as he ate. His every bite showered crumbs over her floorboards.

Let her clean it. She had nothing else to do anyway.

Mello stopped at the bookshelf beside her television set, the only touch of her personality that she'd left in her dry box of a home. Most of the shelf was filled with books, organized in some unknown logic, untouched and dusty.

History books. Books about war. Books about guns. Books about psychology. FBI books, practice exams, books about interrogation and logic.

Mello crouched, taking another bite of his chocolate toast. Her bottom shelf held her fiction novels. Bukowski, Hemingway, Austen, Milton and Woolf. Books Mello had read in his childhood, with dog-eared pages under flashlights.

Memories he didn't remember.

Black picture frames had been tucked at the end of the shelf where her novels stopped. The small space only allowed for three picture frames, clustered in the corner like she had nowhere else to put them.

Hal's memories.

Mello leaned in, peering at the pictures, faded from the light of the sun.

The first picture was a family portrait, posed in front of the door of an antique house. Her parents and James stood beside her, a teenager then. He was shorter than Hal, smiling bright and wide.

The next picture had dozens of heads, smiling from a distance away. They were all dressed in suits. Most likely members of the CIA.

The last picture had a well-dressed group of graduates, standing in front of a vinyl banner. Mello picked it up with his gloves. The sign behind her said _Welcome back, Ecolint!_

Hal stood in the front row, her hair cropped short into a thin blonde bob.

Mello smirked. An international school in Geneva. He wasn't surprised. He leaned back to replace it when he saw another photograph cowering in the shadows.

It was in a wooden picture frame, bigger than the rest.

Mello reached in to pull it out of the cracks, careful not to disturb her meticulously stacked books. A loose puff of dust burst into the morning air as he unearthed it, scattering into her living room and dancing in the afternoon sun.

Hal and another woman. They were both wearing long dresses, a bouquet clasped in the other woman's arm. Smiling. Something was engraved in gold lettering on the wood, glittering in the light.

_Forever In Love, Hal & Christina. 2003._

Mello raised a brow.

Behind him, the press conference began. The sound of camera shutters filled the room. Mello tucked the picture frame back into place, rearranging the photographs as he'd found them, and stood up.

He grabbed the remote from the coffee table and turned the volume up higher.

The president stood on the podium. His white hair was thin and wispy under the bright lights, his forehead shining. Mello finished his toast and dusted the crumbs off his gloves, crossing his arms as he watched Sairas fill the dead air with cordialities.

Messages of thanks. Messages of good-will. Fake messages.

Then the address began. "Six days ago, we saw the annihilation of the mafia on our shores."

Murmurs. Camera flashes.

"We saw the death of David Hoope late last month," he continued, his voice trembling and weak. "On October 27th. We will never forget."

Mello shifted his weight, watching.

"We gather you today to say this," Sairas said. "We, the United States of America, have decided to accept Kira, and will do nothing to stand in Kira's way. I repeat. We are not standing in Kira's way any longer."

The reporters reacted, cameras flashing with increasing speed. Mello narrowed his eyes, his arms falling to his sides.

"Owing to Kira's powers, war is now a thing of the past," Sairas stated. "Organized crime in the States, as well as other countries, is almost completely gone. We've also discovered that the President's death was on account of his attempt to capture Kira."

Mello stared at the television screen in disbelief.

"We are not accepting Kira as righteous," Sairas continued, his voice almost drowned by the sounds of flashing cameras that pulsed over the back walls. "We are only not taking any actions as a country to capture Kira."

Reporters clamored for attention, their microphones waving like drowning hands.

"Mr. President, with all due respect, isn't that essentially the same thing?" one asked. "Aren't you declaring America a pro-Kira country?"

Sairas waved his hand. "That's not the case—"

Mello tore his eyes away, running his hand through his hair. His fingers snagged over his burns. The pain flooded over his body and he bit his tongue, clenching his fists.

Pro-Kira America.

The SPK had no place.

Sairas would defund them, leaving them with nothing but their own resources.

It was over. Mello couldn't use them. New York was meaningless.

He shook his head clear and stomped toward the window as Sairas continued to drone on about Kira.

Flashing. Voices. Mumbles.

What was Mello going to do? He couldn't stop. He had to keep going. He had already suffered a huge loss during his five-day death. He couldn't wait any longer.

Mello gripped at the red curtains, tempted to tear them off the pole.

What could he do?

Hal was only as useful as Near was. Without power, without government protection, they were a rogue terrorist group. Pro-Kira zombies would take them out. With Sairas' approval, the tepid undercurrent of Kira support would slowly take over America.

Mello was in the eye of the storm. In the middle of the mafia, Kira, pro-Kira supporters, L, the NPA.

A hit over his head. A name over his head.

Mello pushed the curtains to the side, kicking her wall. Scuffing the perfect white paint with a track mark as he stormed back to the television screen.

"But Mr. President, American citizens look to the government for guidance. If you are demobilizing anti-Kira efforts, then that means that—"

"Can you openly defy Kira right here?" Sairas interrupted, his bony white hand pointing at him like a witch's claw. "Here, on television?"

"Jesus fucking Christ," Mello mumbled, throwing himself onto the velvet armchair again.

What the fuck could he do? What the fuck could he do?

Mello kicked the coffee table leg, burying his head in his hands. His migraine was flickering again, bobbing up over his meds, ravaging his brain.

He was stuck.

Stuck like he was all those years ago. That stormy night in Hampshire, sleeping in a car he'd broken into with only the clothes on his back.

He'd promised himself never to find himself back in a place like that again. An empty promise he'd made at fourteen. But he had no choice now.

All he could do was wait.


	20. Chapter 20

Hal came back that evening, a finger to her lips. Mello stood in the doorway with his Beretta cocked and ready, his hood over his head.

"Near, I just got home, and I want to take a shower," she announced as she slipped through the door. "I'm taking off the wire for a while."

Mello glared as she fiddled with a tap, unclipping it from her coat lapel and placing it onto the entry table with her keys. She looked back and held her finger to her lips, beckoning Mello to come over with her as she strode to her bathroom.

Mello scowled to himself, his gun at his side, and took off his hood.

He wasn't surprised. Near was backed into a corner with Sairas' announcement.

It was only a matter of time before he started doubting his own people.

Hal led him to her bathroom, spacious and shining white. She shut the door behind her, walking over to her toilet.

She flipped down the cover and sat down, crossing her legs as she unzipped a boot. "Did you watch the news today?"

"Yes," Mello responded, standing by her shower curtains. His hand gripped his gun tight.

"Near is nervous." Hal lined her boots up with the bathmat, draping her elbow over her knee. "Sairas is dissolving the SPK soon."

"I know."

She looked away, shifting and pushing her plastic shower curtains back. She reached over to the bathtub, turning on the faucet. The sound of rushing water echoed off bathroom walls.

"You can't leave my bathroom," she said, pulling back.

"I know," Mello repeated.

She stood up, moving over to her shelves. "I'm going to shower," she said.

"You didn't shower at the SPK?"

She looked back over her shoulder as she unbuttoned her shirt. "No. Near told me to go home tonight to set up the bugs."

Mello shook his head, snapping a piece of his chocolate bar. Of course he did.

Near knew Mello was out of options.

"Near's going to dissolve the SPK before Sairas does," she said, peeling her blouse back.

Mello frowned as he watched her folding her shirt neatly on her shelf. That was a smart move on Near's part. He didn't want the attention, either.

He most likely had more than enough money in his trust fund to run the SPK without government intervention.

Hal fiddled with the zipper on her suit pants, pulling them over her legs. "Near wants to see you."

"What?" Mello sneered. "Why?"

She unhooked her bra and dropped her underwear, placing them onto the shelf. "He has your photo," she said.

"My photo?"

"One from your time at the orphanage." She reached up for a towel, unfolding it and wrapping it around her chest. "It's the only existing photograph of you left."

A photo.

Wammy's House had taken care of most of their records the night they found out about L's death. The headmaster had been ordered to destroy all of their photographs.

Mello glared at the white wall, his teeth clenching. The motherfucker took one as a bargaining chip.

It was the worst thing to hold onto. The little piece of shit never played fair.

"When did he tell you this?" he asked carefully.

"Today," Hal answered, slipping past him towards the bathtub. She hung up her towel on the rack, stepping into her shower and yanking the curtain shut. "You should get it."

Mello shook his head. Near telling them today meant that he was trying to bait Mello to him. Mello couldn't ask Hal to steal it, or else Near would know they were working together.

The sound of the water softened as Hal stood underneath the stream. "Near thought you'd come to one of us soon," she said, coming to the same conclusion.

Mello grunted, biting into his bar of chocolate as the smell of lavender filled the walls. "I thought he would."

"He said you'd choose me first." The sound of a bottle cap clicking shut. "He never thought we'd already be in contact."

Mello looked up. "Why would he say that?"

"Because I'm a woman," she answered, a hint of irony in her tone. "He said you could overpower me. Could you?"

Mello rolled his eyes, biting a piece of his chocolate. He didn't answer.

"He said that you don't have the notebook anymore so you can't control me to keep you a secret. You can't kill me either. Near will know now." She paused, followed by the sound of her squeezing a bottle. "I have to place cameras in my apartment aside from here, too, after this. What are you going to do? Stay in my bathroom?"

Mello still stayed silent, his grip tight over the stock of his gun. Leaving just the bathroom was Near's way of gloating, his way of forcing Mello to do things he didn't want to do.

But New York was dangerous. Where else could he go?

"If this is the only place you can go to stay safe, then I guess I have no choice." She shut off the faucet, her voice ringing clear against the bathroom's tiles. Her hand slithered from behind the curtain, groping for her towel on the rack. "Besides, Near also thinks that the new L is Kira."

"L?" Mello repeated.

But the new L was an idiot. He was nothing more than Kira's puppet. Someone that listened to Kira and had the power to influence the group from the inside. He couldn't be Kira. The NPA was too stupid.

Unless it was a front.

If Kira was L, then he could have used somebody else to deliver the message to the NPA. He would have access to all the NPA files because he was L himself.

Mello looked up. "How sure is Near about this?"

"He seemed sure," Hal answered.

Mello narrowed his eyes. He'd been so close. He'd known L and Kira were working alongside one another for months. But Near still figured it out faster.

Why the fuck was he always one step ahead?

"So what are you going to do?" Hal asked, pushing the curtain back, her towel wrapped around her body. She stepped out of the tub, her feet making puddles on the white tile as she walked across the bathroom floor to her clothes. "If you're not going to stay here."

But the logic fell into place. It was L who encouraged the November 11th raid so that he could kill Mello. L was the one who killed Soichiro when they were none the wiser.

Kira killed L. Kira wore L's skin. Which meant that…

"Hal," Mello interrupted, looking up. "Are you on my side, or Near's?"

He needed to know if she would still help him even if Near uncovered their connection.

"I already told you before. I'm not on anybody's side." Hal wrung her hair out. "We're all trying to catch Kira. I don't care who gets there first."

Then Mello would go to the SPK. Kira and L had been a suspect.

Near had a direct connection to the new L.

Hal was looking at him. "What are you going to do, Mello? Run away?" she asked. "You know I can just tell Near that you were hiding here, and that I met you."

That didn't matter anymore. The NPA trusted Kira. The NPA had worked with L before.

Kira was a member of the NPA, or at least someone close to them. Someone close enough to have seen L personally.

L never showed his face to anybody, not even the Wammy's House children. Mello had only met L twice by pure luck.

"Are you going to keep meeting me for information somewhere else?" Hal pressed.

Mello ignored her. There was something there.

The fake rules.

"Hal," Mello cut in, finally meeting her eyes. "Go back to SPK headquarters."

"What?" She made a face. "I don't have any reason to go back there right now."

Mello pulled his gun. Her eyes widened, her lips falling open in shock.

"Make one up," Mello commanded, pressing it against her forehead. "Go back."

He had to see Near. This was a breakthrough.

The fake rules were created so that L could acquit Kira.

Hal's eyes trailed from the gun back to him, her hair dripping over her face. She didn't look scared.

She looked betrayed.

"Okay," Hal muttered, glancing away. "I will. Just don't point that thing at me, Jesus Christ."

* * *

It'd been years. Five years. The moment the door opened, Mello's heart seized in his chest.

White hair, white pajamas, white skin. His back was facing the door, but Mello remembered that back perfectly.

Nothing had changed. He sat surrounded by stacks of cardboard boxes of varying heights, like he was the God of a little town. A toy train ran through it, zipping around, turning corners, chugging along.

Just like he did when they were children. The lights of the surveillance cameras surrounding the room looked like the glow of the little television screen in the Common Room, coloring his curly hairs blue.

Mello swallowed. The pit in his stomach grew. He thought to himself that maybe, coming to see Near was a bad mistake.

The door whooshed shut behind them, the sound distant. Hal shifted and Mello pressed the barrel of his gun tighter into the back of her head, biting back his memories.

The sight of Near made him sick.

"Welcome, Mello," Near intoned, raising a finger. "How are you healing?"

His voice was the same. The way he talked was the same. Mello knew the voice so well, like an old record player, the sound of a rotten memory.

He wanted to run away. He wanted to go back to his room and hide under his covers.

The gun in his hand felt like a toy. It felt unloaded. Something he'd found in a closet that he couldn't show anybody or he'd get in trouble.

Fucking Hell. Mello swallowed. He blinked and narrowed his eyes.

There were two agents holding their guns to his head, pointed like an execution squad. Near was telling him to stop. Put down their guns. They weren't listening.

Mello refocused. Near was saying, "There is no gain from killing Mello right now. As someone who had the notebook, and was able to get closer to Kira than any of us had — that is something we should respect. In fact, pointing a gun at him is simply rude."

The men withdrew their guns. Mello followed and snapped the Beretta away from Hal's head swiftly, shoving it into his pants. She stumbled forward, leaving Mello standing defenseless.

He had to speak.

Mello asked, "Is everything as you've imagined it to be?"

"Yes. Although I hadn't expected you to come all the way here to see me personally."

Mello flexed his gloved hands, feeling the touch of the leather. He wasn't fourteen anymore. He wasn't afraid of Near anymore.

"And thanks to you, Mello," Near continued, "I have been able to greatly narrow down my suspicions for Kira."

Mello saw red.

Before he knew it, he moved. His gun in his pants, his gun in his hands. His gun pointed at Near's white head, about to splatter the clean floors with his brain.

God, why hadn't he already killed Near when they were younger?

Because the guns were fake when they were children. This was real.

"I'm not a fucking tool to solve your puzzle," Mello spat. He was ready. He could kill Near now.

Near said something else, overlapping with his words. Mello couldn't hear. The agents were shouting again, but all Mello could think of was how much better the world would be without this little child in his way. How many sleepless nights he'd get back for this.

Mello thumbed the safety trigger.

For making him feel useless. For making him feel like no matter how much he did, he wouldn't be enough.

"Mello," Near said calmly, and Mello stared at his back. "If you want to shoot me, feel free."

Mello flipped the safety trigger down. Yes, he wanted to. God, he wanted to. He'd stomp through the blood, feel it squish under his boots. It'd be a waste to just kill him without making him feel it, but it would do.

He'd pull the trigger. Near's soft features would explode outwards, like a vessel burst open, his childish little body falling limp on the ground. Mello would step on it, too. His carefully constructed cardboard towers would crumble, splashed with blood and Near's face.

Mello held the trigger, about to pull, when—

"Mello."

Something dove in front of his gun. Mello dropped his finger, his eyes darting to see a blurry Hal, her palm pressed over the barrel.

"If you shoot Near," she said, her voice wavering, "We'll be forced to open fire on you."

Mello stared at her. Hal's eyes were watering. Mello didn't know why.

"If both you and Near die, then we will have nothing," she said. "Don't do it. Don't let Kira win."

Mello exhaled, pressure unravelling. He looked up from her face to the rest of the room. The two other agents had their guns out, aimed at his head.

They were ready.

They were going to kill him. There was no respect for Mello in Near's headquarters. They didn't care about what he'd done.

They were rabid dogs trained to protect the little bastard at his feet.

Mello clenched his jaw and looked back at Near's smug white back. He decocked, lowering his Beretta. The agents lowered their guns slowly, eyeing him.

Heat burned through Mello's belly. Shame or the residue of anger leaked through his teeth.

Mello ignored the distasteful gazes of the agents around him. He ignored Hal, who looked at him with a mixture of disappointment and concern in her eyes.

Mello had come with a mission in mind. Forget everything else.

"She's right," he said, curling his hands into fists as he looked back down at Near, thawing his voice. "I came for the photo you have of me."

His pulse thrummed in his ears.

"Yes. This is the only remaining photograph of you. There aren't any copies of it."

Near produced the photograph, pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

"The surveillance cameras here only monitor," Near added as he flung the photograph backwards like a boomerang. "They do not record."

Mello caught the picture deftly between his fingers. Wallet-sized and small. A younger Mello smiled for the camera, his skin unmarred.

He flipped it over instinctively. In Near's cursive, _Dear Mello._

He had to stop himself from ripping it to pieces.

"I've contacted members of the House, including anybody else from the past who would know your face," Near said. "Or anybody you may be working with."

Mello looked back up, narrowing his eyes at Near as he continued, "I can't guarantee anything a hundred percent. But I think it's safe to say that you won't be killed by the notebook for the time being."

"I have no intention of joining forces with you."

"I know."

"But I owe you."

Near paused, digging a finger through his hair. One of his autistic tendencies that he never broke. "Oh?"

"Yes." Mello exhaled, throwing his pride away. "The death note belongs to a death god, and people who touch it are able to see it."

"Bullshit," one of the agents interrupted.

Mello shot the agent a look as Near countered, "I believe him. Why would Mello come up with something as insipid as a death god? If he were to tell a lie, he would have said something more believable. Therefore, a death god exists."

Mello cocked his head slightly. Near took well to this bit of information.

"My notebook belonged to a death god named Sidoh. It came to take it back. Another death god had the notebook in its possession before it."

"It's odd for the death god to write rules down in English for humans, only to take it back for himself," Near mused, catching onto his logic quickly.

Mello jerked his head. "That's the last thing."

The most important piece. The reason he came.

Near stayed still, listening. Mello turned around, shoving his Beretta back into his pants.

"There are two fake rules hidden in that notebook," Mello said, flexing his hands into fists. "That's all I'll say."

Silence. Near was thinking. Mello knew it would change the direction of how he'd been taking the case.

Near wouldn't have been able to get anywhere without Mello's help.

"Thank you," Near said finally, his voice quiet with respect. "The race is on."

"We're headed to the same place," Mello responded, striding toward the automatic doors. The doors opened for him dutifully, revealing a long, sanitized stretch of a stark white hallway leading back to the world outside.

Mello would take his chances. He didn't want to stay here any longer. He was sick of the SPK. Sick of anything that made him think of Near. He wanted to leave, to be away from memories of his younger, weaker days.

* * *

It was photo day. Mello was at the river behind the House with the big willow trees, smoking a cigarette that wasn't his. They used to go there all the time. They used to skip rocks and stay out until sundown.

That day, a professor grabbed him back to take a picture for the display case in the foyer. Elites used to have to pose for pictures. All of the top ten, for all the children to see whenever they left for recess.

Mello was thirteen then. He was mischievous and young, his face smooth and clean, and his hair smelled like smoke. All he wore were hand-me-downs from the donation bins of the orphanage.

Fire ate his face, the paper curling over the flames.

Mello stared at the ashtray as he sat in the netted swivel chair. The sound of lower Manhattan's rush hour bloomed up to this floor, just a few blocks away from the SPK's main base and Hal's hideout.

He'd taken a taxi here. He arrived safe. The hotel didn't know Rod's or Pavone's names. He'd scanned it for bugs and taken the landline apart for taps just in case, but everything turned up empty, which meant this was a fine resting spot for the next few days.

He just had to make sure he didn't leave.

Mello didn't have much of a choice. He couldn't stay with Hal any longer. Not when he'd established contact directly with Near.

Mello decided to isolate himself just for the sake of having his own base to work from. Maybe that was worth his while.

A lump had formed in the back of his skull after he left the SPK, the drugs struggling to cover his headache after his meltdown. His vision was blurry and he'd been eating nothing but chocolate since his five-day death.

Mello was exhausted. But he had to keep going. There was new information, new leads to pursue.

This time, it wasn't a dead end. He could feel it. Still, he couldn't be in New York alone. It left little option.

Matt. Mello hadn't been eager to involve him at all. Matt was too good to be implicated, and he didn't want to have Matt anywhere near the SPK or the NPA. Keeping him in LA had been his way of reducing the risk of losing his only colleague.

Mello swallowed, watching the flickering flames eating his young face, touching the phone still on the receiver. Should he? Did he have to?

Yes, he needed Matt. Despite his reservations.

He ran his fingers through his mottled hair, careful not to tear it out of his burnt scalp. He picked up the receiver. He pressed it to his ear, listening to the droll dial tone on the other end, waiting for him to establish a connection.

Mello untangled his fingers from his bangs and pressed the digits. The numbers beeped as he keyed them in. All ten of them.

The call connected, purring.

* * *

Matt turned his head to glare at his fucking Blackbird phone. God have mercy on him, but he was starting to hate Miku, even though it wasn't even her fault that he had a Pavlovian reaction of hiding under the table whenever she rang.

It was screaming somewhere by his feet on the other end of the sofa, tucked between the cushions or something. He could see the blinking lights against the fabric of his couch, but he didn't go to pick it up.

He was busy with Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2. It had saved his fucking life, keeping him busy with an arsenal of missions from the day he woke up to his empty apartment. He'd been clearing the Charlie Ops since this morning. Right now, he was busy in Chernobyl.

So whoever wanted to reach him could fucking wait.

Matt rolled his head back to face the TV screen, his neck held up by the arm of the couch. Back to grey, cloudy Ukrainian skies and abandoned churches, crawling with enemies and radiation and snipers who wanted to blow his head off.

Matt had spent the last hour memorizing the shit out of his enemy positions. He knew exactly where all of them were. It was a matter of getting three stars.

He knew this was the game.

Matt climbed up the stairs inside the house, going up to the rooftop. Miku fell quiet, like she was watching him play with anticipation. Through the scope of his shotgun, three guys stood with their guns aimed at him by the wooden shed.

_Boom_. Headshot. _Kachak. Boom. _Headshot. _Kachak_._ Boom. _He shot, and —

His phone started ringing again.

Missed.

Matt tsked, riddling bullets into the last guy before he went down. He pushed himself off the arm of the couch, his bones creaking all the way down his spine, and unearthed his phone from the crack between the cushion and the back, squinting at the subscreen.

New York area code. Near must have wanted him bad. Matt sighed, flipping the phone open. "What do you want, dude?"

"Hi, Matt."

Matt stopped.

It wasn't Near's mechanical little voice after all. Instead, over the other line, in a room that sounded quiet, another, rougher voice spoke.

Mello.

Alive.

Why was Matt surprised?

It was Matt's own goddamned fault for checking news articles for days for random bodies being found in Los Angeles. His own fault for looking for John Does that matched Mello's description. He should have known that Mello didn't _die_.

Mello just disappeared and reappeared in New York a few days later. You know. The type of heartless, cruel, mean shit that Mello always did. Matt didn't know why he expected anything else.

Matt rolled his eyes, balancing his phone between his cheek and his shoulder. "Oh, it's you," Matt said blankly.

He shuffled back into position, grabbing his controller off the seat.

Mello asked, "How are you?"

His character crouched, reloading. "Fine."

"That's good."

Matt walked off the roof and back down the ladder into the house. "Yup."

"Are you doing anything right now?"

Matt hummed noncommittally. "Yeah."

"What?"

"Nothing important."

"Come see me then."

Matt frowned, twisting his features as his character landed on his boots. "What?"

"I'm in Manhattan."

"Are you serious?"

"Of course I am."

Fucking psychopath. Matt said as much, laughing humorlessly. "No fucking way, man."

"I can't move right now."

Matt shrugged. He paced back into the hallway, crouching behind a broken table. "So?"

"So board the AA28 flight to JFK. Bring your system."

Matt frowned. "What? No."

"Give me a call when you arrive at JFK. I'll give you further instructions then."

Matt turned away from the screen. "Dude, what the fuck are you on about?"

"Destroy this phone after we're finished this conversation," Mello continued briskly. "And bring a new cellphone with you."

"I said no."

"The flight leaves tonight," Mello said, ignoring him. "Keep in touch."

Matt squinted just as the line went dead. _Beep beep_. Stared at his cell phone screen, the black background staring back at him complacently.

Was Mello for fucking _real_? What the fuck was that?

Matt tossed his marked phone onto the sofa with a bounce. Asshole.

No meant no.

Back to CoD.

Somebody was up ahead in the hallway. Matt tried to reload, but remembered belatedly that he already did. He got up, dashing down the hallway, and stood by the window, aiming through the glass at the roof across.

Seriously, Mello had too much nerve, and Matt was sick of it. Sick of taking his shit. Sick of having to walk on eggshells all the time, too worried to fuck something up irreversibly. He'd spent the past three days mourning the friend he'd never had and the boss he'd never wanted.

Enough was enough. Matt wasn't going to go through that again. All that for 70k — no thanks. Matt would rather play online poker.

Matt fired. Headshot.

Besides, he had all the Spec-Ops to beat. He hadn't even started with the Co-Ops, and he was positive that he'd sink another month of his life on multiplayer. Seriously, thank fucking God for CoD, because without it, he'd be—

Matt was taking damage from behind suddenly, his controller vibrating. The screen turned red. He turned around, trying to find the enemy, but his health was dropping quick.

His character panted, slowing down, ears ringing. The dreaded message flashed up on his screen: _You are hurt. Get to cover!_

Fuck. Matt sighed, rolling his eyes, and paused the game. He lost it. He couldn't fucking focus. This was Mello's fault.

Why did he need him over in New York so bad, anyway?

Matt threw his controller down and leaned over to his idling laptop, drawing up an incognito tab on his Opera browser. He googled, AA28.

_Flight from LAX to JFK. Duration: 5 h 17 min. Scheduled departure: 11:00PM._

Hell no. That meant he had less than eight fucking hours to pack his system, kill his Blackbird cell, haul ass to the airport, get stuck in traffic, get a new phone, and get to the gates before boarding.

That was stupid. Top tier stupid. He wasn't going to just get up and go. He had CoD to finish. He wasn't going to leave everything behind and just _go_ because Mello fucking told him to.

Fuck Mello.

Matt didn't want to be a fucking lackey anymore.

Matt's eyes drifted back to the pause menu of his screen. He started imagining the next couple of months of his life, not working on the Kira case. It would look something like this:

November: finishing solo Spec-Ops on Veteran. Andre still hasn't gotten a new hook-up.

December: Cali's still dry. Trying to find people to play Co-Ops with him on Christmas Day, get called a lonely faggot by like-minded teenagers for not having family or friends.

January: Cali's still dry. Starting to get bored of CoD, but still in too deep to stop.

February: Still dry. Bored of CoD. Decide to get on fent patches instead. Overdose on his 20th birthday.

Matt grabbed the controller and quit the game, moving over to slam his laptop shut.

That sounded fucking miserable.

Looked like Matt was going to New York after all.

He paced back into his bedroom to grab a duffel bag, spreading it out over his floor, and started to shove whatever he could find into it. iPod. Laptop. His 10TB hard drive. All his underwear, socks and dirty laundry.

Matt's eyes glossed over his overflowing trash bin, at the crumpled Saran wrap that sat above his garbage, and he stopped.

Did he really want to do this? Mello was a total dick. Why wait on his beck and call?

Matt pursed his lips. The answer was easy.

Because he didn't want to stay here and wallow, waiting for tomorrow to come and dreading it all the same.

His existence would mean slightly more in New York, at least. Even if slightly. And, fuck, maybe that was what he needed to get back on his feet.

Matt zipped up his bag, sighing to himself. Who was he kidding? He had nothing to lose, anyway.


	21. Chapter 21

Friday morning. Eighteen hours later.

Matt was in New York, NYC, the Big Apple, the city of trash cans and the homeless.

Right in the middle of Mello's orbit once again.

The three days he'd had off already felt like forever ago. He was back to being the Lackey, the Bitch Boy, the IT guy. The morning was cold and rainy, and the drizzle hit his goggles and hair like a wet little slobbery kiss.

Matt stared up at the towering unit of a sleek glass building, the cars around him singing in a symphony of traffic congestion.

_Honk. Honk. Hooooooooonk._

This was the hotel. It was awfully central; literally only a street from where the old Twin Towers used to stand, and within a walking distance from the goddamned trade center of the world. Probably one of the worst places that Mello could have picked for lying low, but hey, Matt wasn't his goddamned keeper.

Matt had a job, so he'd do it. That was it. Anything else was none of his business.

Matt had decided that he wasn't going to make the mistake of getting involved anymore.

Matt walked up the shallow steps and pushed through the revolving door with his shoulder, emerging on the other side and almost macking with a business man that had criss-crossed right in front of him. He armed his duffel bags before him like shields and walked briskly like he had a purpose to be there, turning away from the picture-perfect front desk clerks smiling like Stepford wives and turning to the elevators.

They were glittering gold, separated in the floor's sections. _FOR FLOOR 40, 41, 42, 43, 44,.._.

Fuck, this hotel was glitzy.

Matt pushed the rest of the way towards the elevator that had the number "12" in the hallway sign, his boots leaving unsubtle faux-Demonia prints on the clean grey carpet. Every head he passed by was coiffed and every suit he knocked shoulders with was well-fitted, and well, again. Matt stuck out like a sore fucking thumb.

Inside the hallway, Matt pressed the elevator up button. An empty one sitting at the ground floor dinged open just beside him. Matt walked over and got in to close the doors, pressing Floor 12.

The reflective doors closed silently and he jetted upstream in the shaft, watching the digital numbers toll up top. Elevator music. Beneath it was a nice little sign: _Elevator under periodic surveillance_. Big Brother was watching.

_Ding_.

The elevator doors swooshed opened again. He got out, turned left, found 1210, and knocked on the door.

A few seconds later, the door swung open to an empty room.

Matt eased himself in, squeezing into the small space of the hallway and finding the only open area at the foot of two twin beds. Jesus, for how expensive the lobby area looked, the rooms were approximately the size of a cardboard box.

Matt dropped his bags onto the bed that looked untouched by the window. He heard the door shut behind him, the lock reengaging, and pulled the curtain to the side to peek out the window.

The Hudson River glittered in the crack between the tall buildings, a little tour boat funnelling along the stream. The terrain directly beneath them was an ugly construction plot, cranes the size of Hot Wheels littered all over the dirt.

Matt turned to see good old Mello, walking out of the entryway with a dark brown scar stretching down the length of his face. It looked like crumpled tissue paper soaked in tea, ridged with pink keloids and puffy at the edges like an inflammation, an eye patch sitting over his left eye.

Jesus Christ, that was ugly. Matt looked away, back at the room, and found the next best thing to say.

"This room is really fucking small," Matt commented.

Mello shrugged, leaning against the wall. "I've seen worse."

Matt raised his eyebrows, snorting humorlessly. "Yeah, sure. At least I got my own bed."

Matt regretted it as soon as it left his mouth. Mello didn't respond, and Matt looked away to unzip his bag.

Bad mistakes, memory loss, yadda yadda.

Stop fucking thinking, Matt.

He pulled out wires and wires of shit that Mello requested he bring, dropping the coils back onto the bedspread like oily vines. He turned the bag over and emptied it out, throwing the skin onto the garishly patterned floor when he was done, and fished out a half-empty cigarette pack from his pocket.

There was an ashtray on the bedside table. He walked over to retrieve it, glancing over to see Mello throwing a handful pills into his mouth with a violent slap of his palm.

Matt looked away quickly, like he'd caught something he shouldn't have seen. Guess Mello had a new habit. Oops.

None of his concern.

Matt paced back to the bed with his ashtray and set it on the edge of the windowsill. He lit up a cig and grabbed the new phone that he'd prepared from in between wires, walking back to give it to Mello. It was this cool red phone he'd got second-hand off of Craigslist, wasn't worth shit, but he'd breathed new life into it, made it a whole new guy.

Mello looked up as he approached, and Matt opened the phone up to flash the screen at him. "Here," Matt said, closing it again with a clap. "Your new phone."

Mello nodded once.

Matt tossed the phone onto the desk, looking around. "Where can I put my stuff?"

"I'll clear the desk for you later," Mello said noncommittally, taking a swig from a plastic water bottle. "I have a few places I need you to go today."

So it began.

"Okay," Matt said. "Where to?"

"Come here."

Matt walked closer to Mello's side as Mello ripped a piece of paper from the memo pad beside his laptop, handing it over. In his cursive scrawl was an address somewhere in Brooklyn, with a name written up top. Xavier.

"I need you to get a new phone for yourself so that we can have contact," Mello said as Matt read his handwriting, frowning. "Only use it to call me. You should be able to get it here, but if you can't, let me know."

Matt quirked a brow. This better not be another _7051 Fifth Avenue_ incident.

"I can't move at all in New York City," Mello continued vaguely. "So you're my eyes and ears, Matt."

Matt nodded as if he understood what that entailed, pocketing the piece of paper.

"Do you know how to intercept phone calls?" Mello asked.

Matt frowned. He'd never bugged a phone before, and phreaking hadn't been his forte at the House. "No. But I mean, I can learn?"

"Buy whatever equipment you might need," Mello replied breezily, switching windows on his laptop. "I need my calls monitored on all sides. I don't care how you do it."

Matt nodded again, scratching his head. "How long do I have?"

"Two days."

Matt raised his brows, the stress piling back on his shoulders. "... Okay. I'll try, man."

Mello looked up from his screen. "How long will it take for you to get a car?"

"Like, a new car?"

"Yes. Preferably from online."

"Uh…" Matt slumped. "I dunno. Depends on the listings. A week?"

"Make that three days," Mello responded coolly. "I want you to get a car for yourself to move around. You modded your Camaro in LA, right?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Then I want tinted windows, a good engine, and new plates. I want the passenger side and the driver's side at 20%."

Mello slid his hand into the pocket of his leather pants, pulling something out. It was a tight wad of hundred-dollar bills, a thin elastic band holding them together.

Mello handed it over, and Matt frowned as he took it. It was pretty small. Just by eyeballing, Matt could tell that it definitely wasn't enough to make up for his salary.

"What's this?" Matt asked, looking back up.

"The downpayment for everything you're getting today."

Matt squinted. "How much is this?"

"15k."

That wasn't even 5% of his pay.

"You want me to pay for a car with that?" Matt asked incredulously. He could probably get a shitty little Sedan with that much. Or a fucking Tata Nano.

"You can get any car you think you need," Mello responded coolly, crossing his arms. "I'll make up the difference later in addition to your salary."

Matt frowned. Something wasn't right. He'd been working for Mello for over a month now — and he'd gotten the couple thousand for the explosives, but it'd been radio silence from there on out.

"But," he started, whiny. "You still owe me the 70k up front, and the stuff for Mario…" He trailed off.

"We'll negotiate later," Mello said coolly. His eye was harsh and piercing past his little eye-patch. _No money talk_.

Matt pursed his lips, grabbing his wallet from his back pocket. "'Kay," he mumbled, jamming the bills in. The leather of his wallet bulged uncomfortably. "Later."

"We have a mission on Monday," Mello concluded, jerking his head to the door like he was shooing a pet. "Come back by 9 PM. Go."

* * *

In the afternoon on some street in Brooklyn, after doing some shopping, getting new phones and fiddling with the settings, Matt received a text on his new cellphone, its little lights blinking.

_im done now where r u?_

He peeked out from the awning of the subway exit, shielding his head with his hand as he walked outside to the rain and the neighborhood. His new friend Alex was just around the corner in front of his house, hands full of sweet New York City heroin.

Yes, heroin. The H-word.

Mello may have given him a shitton of work, but Matt wanted his own time off, too. Labor laws.

Okay, yeah, Matt had been very resolute about getting his life back on track when he came to New York. It really was practically a breaking point. But he'd be a fucking idiot to try to do this without a little help from his old buddy.

He didn't want to be caught in the godawful situation he was in after the explosion, this time without CoD to soften the blow. He needed to score so he could feel sane again.

It all made perfect sense, really.

Alex was standing in the drizzle with his hands in the pockets of his puffy blue vest, and he rubbed his nose and took a small step back as Matt walked towards him.

"It's fuckin' cold out today," Alex mumbled, rubbing his arms.

"Yeah." Matt glanced at his fists, trying to see what was inside his pockets. "You got it?"

"Yeah, my guy just left."

Alex looked around and pulled his hands out of his vest, producing two wax paper stamp bags. On the bottom of the bag was a stamped logo: SCORPION KING, complete with a crudely rendered skull, like some sort of streetwear logo.

He handed it over and let Matt peek inside. Matt did another cursory scan of his surroundings before lifting the wax paper to say hello to the small white rocks, with bits of it crumbled underneath into powder.

It sent fucking chills down Matt's spine. "Jesus fucking Christ," Matt breathed, feeling tingles in his fingers. It felt like he'd waited his entire life for this moment.

"Yeah," Alex mumbled, pulling back and taking a look into it himself. "I heard LA doesn't have much powder stuff left, right?"

"Nope. Especially not now," Matt said, swallowing and rubbing his palms on his jeans.

Alex laughed, shaking his head as he shoved the bags back into his pockets. "I can't believe LA's all out. It's all over Bluelight. LA people tryin' to cop, goin' to Detroit and New York and shit."

"Yeah," Matt answered faintly. Now that he'd seen it and knew it was _right there_, every ounce of self-control went out the window. His heart was starting to beat hard. _Thu-thump. Thu-thump_.

"So now dealers are jacking the prices up." Alex shook his head to himself. "I heard the dope in LA isn't too bad, though. How is it?"

"It's good," Matt answered distractedly. _Thu-thump_.

Alex kept going. "So why you in New York? You said you had some other stuff to do."

Matt shrugged, fidgeting. "Uh, business trip."

"Oh, with your company?"

"Just my boss," Matt said, wincing and sighing as the rain picked up over them, splashing into puddles gutting the Brooklyn streets.

Alex sensed it, finally. That junkie's intuition. He tilted his head, his black dreads brushing his shoulders, and grinned. "You wanna try it out, don't you, man?"

"Yeah," Matt answered immediately, not even an inkling of shame in his system.

"Goddamn," Alex laughed, clapping Matt over the shoulder. "Alright, let's go up to my room."

* * *

Alex's place was a room full of rap posters and a skateboard. It looked like his brother's old room, actually, back in Canada. Fuck if Matt wasn't going to feel a little bit nostalgic about it, either.

"Cool," he commented, stepping forward as Alex closed the door behind him. He pointed at the poster of Neon Genesis Evangelion right above his iron bedpost. "Loved that show as a kid."

"Yeah, it's good, right?" Alex took a hop, a skip and a jump over his floor full of shit and pushed his clothes off of his swivel chair in front of his desk, flopping down with a loud sigh and taking the heroin he had out of his pockets. Matt walked over and took one, scanning around the room for some free space before walking to the foot of his bed to take a seat.

"My guy's been kinda unreliable these days," Alex said as he undid the bag. He smoothed the wax flat on the table, eyeing the powder carefully. "And I heard China White's been all over New York City."

Matt nodded, pushing open his own bag over Alex's navy sheets, staring at the off-white rocks, the consistency of baby powder. The branding was entrepreneurial — made Andre's operation seem like a lemonade stand, his balloons some sort of low-grade spunky tea in a plastic cup.

"I saw lots of memorials on Bluelight these days. Kinda sucks," Alex mumbled. "We're not gonna have fent in this though, King doesn't do that shit," Alex added.

Matt hummed, inspecting the rocks. Vinegary.

When he looked up, Alex had set up his whole rig over his desk like a workbench. "Just his quality's been downhill since LA got hit. I think the guys who get it in LA get it for the rest of the States."

"Yeah," Matt mumbled, waiting for Alex to be done with his shit as patiently as he could. "You have extra needles, right?"

Alex looked back, looking at him like he was crazy, as he pushed his sleeves up and tied his tourniquet over his arm. "'Course man."

Matt shrugged. "Just checking."

Alex looked back and took a small amount of heroin into the water in his cooking spoon, soaking it up with a pinch from a cotton pad, and then lit it with a flame from a lighter he had strewn over the table. He popped open the needle package with his other hand, sliding the needle up and biting the cap, keeping it wedged in his teeth.

Matt averted his eyes right as Alex primed a spot to shoot. He didn't know why, but watching another man shoot up felt intimate. He'd only just met the dude — he didn't need to see it. Let him have his moment and whatnot.

He heard Alex sigh softly, and then the sound of tossing the needle back onto the desk. Matt peeked up with one eye through his bangs, his brain slowing down at the sounds alone.

"How was that?" Matt asked, meekly.

Alex rubbed his arm, blinking slowly, his light eyes looking even brighter with his pupils shrinking to pins. "Not too bad," he said, clearing his throat. "Your turn."

Angels sung. It was his time.

Matt's heart was _thuthuthuthuthumping_ so loud he was sure Alex could hear it. He crinkled his bag and got up, walking over as Alex all but melted off of the chair and rolled onto the carpet underneath empty beer cans and piles of his clothes.

God, Matt wanted to be where he was.

Matt sat down and unwrapped the bag like a greedy kid on Christmas eve, pinching just a bit of the powder into Alex's dirty spoon. His heart was going at a million bpm as he grabbed a new syringe from Alex's box, ripping the wrapping with his teeth and spitting it out onto the table with building ferocity vibrating in his veins.

He copied Alex and bit the needle cap off, taking it into his mouth like a cigarette and turned away just slightly, rotating the swivel chair towards the window. Didn't want to do it in front of watchful eyes, after all. He'd only ever used with one other person all his life, and she was his girlfriend.

Well, here he went. Matt took a deep breath, registered, and pushed down.

The heroin surged through his veins with a vengeance, so sweet and so intense that it soaked his nerves with honey and vanilla icing. The warmth kept expanding, kept growing, kept _going_, so much and so good that Matt didn't know what to do but clench his toes and close his eyes.

This. This was it.

He missed this so fucking much.

Matt disappeared into the swirling colors of heaven and bliss, pushed to and fro by the heroin's riptide. His head was rolling half-off Alex's swivel chair when he came to, staring up at Alex's high ceilings.

Matt exhaled, tonguing the roof of his mouth. Dry as fuck.

He'd lived nineteen years of his life just for this moment, he was sure of it.

"Shit," Matt whispered. He looked over at Alex, who was lying on the ground still, floating on his lazy river ride. "This is fucking perfect."

"Really, man?" Alex drawled, putting his hands behind his head, looking less gone. "When was the last time you used?"

Matt sighed, breathing deeply. God, he felt good. Like nothing could ever hurt him again. His body fit again, warm and cozy and safe; his skin felt like it wrapped around his bones perfectly, no excess, no tears, no rips, nothing impossible.

"Almost three weeks ago," Matt answered after a long pause, rubbing his eyes. "My boss forced me off."

"Your boss?" Alex laughed, his hand on his belly rumbling along with it. "The one you're on a business trip with?"

Matt nodded slowly.

"That's rough, man. At least you didn't get fired."

"Well…"

"Ever thought about quitting?"

Matt sighed, leaning over lazily to wrap the heroin stamp bag back up, slipping it into his vest pocket again for further safekeeping. "Good question," he mumbled, settling back. The chair creaked under his weight.

"What do you do?"

Matt rolled his head back, staring at the warm lights on the ceiling and the fan that kept on spinning like a Beyblade. He felt himself fading again before he asked, "Huh? What?"

"What do you do?"

"My job?"

"Yeah."

"IT. You?"

"College. I don't go though."

"Sounds nice," Matt mumbled, closing his eyes, the darkness behind his eyelids enveloping him like rain to sea. Nice and warm.

Alex hummed, sounding farther and farther away. He said something, but Matt couldn't hear anymore.

He was dancing, floating, singing, falling, flying, suddenly, beeping.

Matt blinked back awake. He was in a bedroom. Tall ceilings. No wounds. Organs intact.

Where the fuck?

A voice. "Oh, tonight? Yeah, man…"

God, it was bright. Matt pulled his head back up, his neck cramping and his bones heavy, and squinted at the blob in front of him. What the fuck was that — wearing a black t-shirt and…

"… Yeah, cool, yeah. How much? Oh, yeah. Yeah, that sounds dope. No, I don't think so…"

It was Alex. He was sitting on his bed, on the phone, looking much more awake than Matt felt.

Oh yeah. Matt had just relapsed.

Whoops.

He spun around to look at the window as Alex kept talking. It was dark outside already. Matt lifted his ass, slipping out his phone to flash the subscreen. 5:29.

A whole hour had passed.

Matt exhaled, rubbing his forehead. All the excitement and the contentment had faded with the sleep, leaving only a rumbling undercurrent of guilt behind. He flipped open his cell phone, looking at the Missed Calls (2). Both from Mello.

Good thing he was still high, because seeing that would make him feel like complete and utter shit otherwise. Matt shrugged to himself, flipping his phone shut with a soft sigh.

"Hey," Alex said, grinning, hanging up on his call. "That knocked you out, huh?"

Matt looked up and nodded, smiling sheepishly. "Yeah. Sorry, man, didn't even know I was nodding that hard."

Alex shrugged. "Happens. You about to leave?"

Matt sighed again. "Maybe. I guess. I dunno." He shrugged, rubbing his eyes under his goggles. "I should."

"Hey, you okay, man?"

Matt nodded, groaning as he sat himself up, cracking his back. "Yeah, yeah. I'm okay. Just sore," he responded, diffusing the topic. "You got somewhere to be later?"

"My cousin invited me out to a party at a club a few blocks down tonight," Alex said, "There are some guys there who deal. They got a new shipment of heroin last night."

Matt raised his eyebrows. "What, you on a mailing list or something?"

Alex laughed. "Nah, my cousin works as a bouncer. He knows they deal for dirt cheap."

Matt's mood skyrocketed as he heard that, his ears piqued like a happy dog. "How cheap?"

"Like, fifteen a bag?"

A bag went for close to 60 back in Arizona, 40 with Andre back when he had more shit. No more time for guilt. This was the best thing he'd ever fucking heard. "For real?"

"Yeah, for real." Alex glanced at his wall clock, slipping his phone back in his pocket. "If you want, we can head over there. You can get some off them and just bounce."

Well, Matt had already relapsed. Might as well make the most of it.

"Yeah, fuck it," he said, nodding. "Let's do it."

* * *

They walked over in the drizzle, and Matt was on high alert still because of the amount of shit he had on him in his vest. If a K9 decided to walk by him, he was fucking toast.

And pulling out his pistol in front of a cop just sounded like a recipe for disaster.

That was what he was thinking, anyway, when they walked through throngs of people going to nightclubs or stumbling around already drunk. There were fairy lights strung on the trees, girls with tight skirts stumbling past him with loud giggles, guys with eyeliner and far too much hairspray.

It was early in the night still, but apparently, the party had already started, different clubs blasting different songs so loud that it filled up the whole street.

The guilt was short lived, replaced by a much more familiar feeling: the Desire to Score. Matt hated clubs, hated crowds and hated parties, but a little discomfort was the trade-off he would have to make to get premium grade, New York Cut medium raw dope.

Still, the louder the music got, the more Matt's self-resolve crumbled.

Alex stopped at the one that Matt wanted to go to the absolute least. The line of skinny guys in front of a matte black structure went down for miles on the sidewalk, the doorway blocked by a huge black guy that looked like he could take on all of them at once. Heavy electronic music was leaking from the tagged doors of the joint, so loud that Matt already felt like he was standing beside the speaker.

This one was the loudest of the whole fucking neighborhood. Matt stepped back to peer at the sign. In a script font, lit up by bright blue neon behind the text: _Escape_.

"This it?" Matt asked, pointing.

Alex nodded.

Just as he was about to ask something else, his train of thought was interrupted by a chorus of yells. Matt turned his head to look, watching a drag queen saunter down the sidewalk, waving his hand at the line of skinny boys with a wide, open grin. They were screaming things at each other, and Matt couldn't tell if they were angry or happy.

"This…" Matt blanched. "What kind of a club is this?"

Alex gave him a look.

Matt got paler. "Dude, what?" And then, almost panicked, "Are you fucking with me?"

"Shh. Follow me," Alex nodded, heading straight for the bouncer.

"Dude, wait—"

"Don't worry," Alex said, shooting him a stern look that felt disturbingly familiar. "Just shush and follow my lead."

And follow his lead he did. The bouncer grinned big and wide as Alex went up the steps, clasping his hand in a bro-shake-shoulder-clap. They whispered into each other's ears for a bit, and then Alex jerked his head back at Matt, whispering some more.

Matt shrunk at the foot of the steps, feeling weird.

The bouncer looked back at Matt, studying him up-and-down before stepping back and gesturing for him to come over. Alex slipped in the heavy black door, giving him a firm nod before he disappeared.

"ID," the bouncer said gruffly, when Matt got close enough.

Matt rustled his wallet for it, deciding on the twenty-two year old Harry Sachz from Louisiana. The bouncer flashed a light over it, gave him a knowing smirk, and then handed it back anyway, jerking his head towards the door. "Only 'cuz you with Alex. Have a good night, man."

Matt went in, VIP-style, and tried to ignore the long line of guys who cursed him out for it. He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to look like he blended in in an "I'm-experimenting" kind of way, and found Alex by the bar at the end of the long dark glittery hallway.

Jesus Christ, it was loud.

There was a neon pink dance floor in the main hall, filled to the brim with the smoky smell of tobacco, dry ice, and sweaty bodies. Dangling from the ceiling was a large, shining silver disco ball, throwing sparkles everywhere on the second floor, where boys hung over the ledge and got to know one another.

Actually, loud couldn't cut it. The club was blaring, blasting, bumping, booming; so fucking nuts that he knew he'd lose his hearing by the time he was done. On top of that, there was nowhere to fucking move in the main hall, and Matt had to hold on tight to his bundle of happiness in his pocket before someone else got to it.

He slithered over to Alex at the bar, talking to the bartender, friends already. The other stools were all taken, as were the spaces in between them, but Matt sidled over and peeked over Alex's shoulder.

The bartender glanced back at him coolly as he turned around to get a beer from the mini fridge. He placed the bottle on the bar and flashed Alex a quick smile before moving onto another customer, pocketing the crinkled tip.

Alex turned around, grabbing the beer bottle and scuttling over to Matt's side. "You doin' okay?"

"Yeah."

Alex didn't really care either way. "Come with me," he yelled, swinging his beer bottle along as he detached himself from Matt's side and slithered away. He zig-zagged through the crowd of dancing men and disappeared, leaving Matt to force his way through the sweaty sea.

Bobbing along between heads, Matt managed to find Alex again, his dreadlocks moving left and right in the cloud of smoke and fog. He was headed for the back of the club near the DJ's soundset, where the crowd seemed to tighten, and then Matt spotted it as someone walked up.

A staircase.

After almost kissing someone's sweaty shoulder, Matt zipped up his vest, gripped his stamp bag in his vest harder and geared up to charge. As he tried to push back, someone put a warm hand on Matt's waist, as if trying to stop him for something.

Matt jerked, looking around. A tall bearded guy was looking at him from between two heads, some expression in his eyes.

Nope.

Matt turned away, ducking along the crowd for Alex. He managed to catch up somehow, and grabbed onto his damp shirt sleeve when he caught up to him.

"Dude," he shout-hissed, as if he'd just emerged out of the trenches. "Why the fuck did you bring me to a gay bar of all places?"

Alex frowned at him. "You got something against gay people?" he yelled.

"No," he shout-mumbled into Alex's ear. "But I woulda appreciated a heads up."

"Who cares!"

The song ended, bleeding into the next technofunky garbage, and the lights changed from pink to dark blue, the spotlights swivelling around the dancefloor. The DJ danced behind the set just a few feet from them, jumping and throwing his hands up in the air. The crowd packed in closer together as the song picked up, and now, Matt could hardly breathe, let alone move.

Alex was gone. He'd slipped away effortlessly while Matt was wedged between a short Asian guy and a tall blonde dude.

Fuck it. He pushed.

The crowd ejected him like a catapult, and Matt found himself on the other side of the black-and-white checkered tile road, thanking god that he could breathe again. Throngs of people were still moving back and forth between the staircase and the back walls, but compared to the dancefloor, it was practically Antarctica.

Alex was climbing the staircase. Matt followed behind, rounding up the narrow steps and trying not to step on the spilled drinks and sticky metal.

The music let up a bit when they reached the second floor, even though the level was still packed like sardines. A group of dressed up boys chattered and rounded the steps down with their cocktails raised, nearly bumping Matt off the railing. One of them had bob-length blonde hair and darkly made eyes.

Huh. Speaking of which. Matt grabbed his phone out of his pocket as he let them pass and glanced at the time. 6:55. He was okay for another while.

The second floor was set up like a lounge, tables littered with empty drinks and half-bitten slices of limes, but Alex was at the far back, where there was one booth raised up above everything else, tucked inside a small enclosure that gave them their own spotlight.

A group of boys sat there, facing everybody in the club like a throne. They looked like everybody else — young, slim, dressed up — but they definitely didn't look like they were out of a night out.

They weren't smiling or talking to one another. They were watching the dancefloor like the judges of an execution panel, staring down at the other clientele like they all owed them money. Matt wondered if they all dealt, or if it was some sort of team formation; a specialized drug per person.

Alex waved him over and gestured exaggeratedly, his beer splashing everywhere as he leaned in closer towards one guy in particular. He had bleached blonde hair and a lip piercing, his blue eyeshadow glittering underneath the spotlight set above him, matching the rose-patterned wallpaper behind him almost too well.

"This is my friend," Alex yelled as Matt walked over to join them. He waved with what he hoped looked like a smile, and then wiped his sweaty palms on his vest.

The guy's eyes drifted over towards Matt disinterestedly, rolling his lollipop around in his mouth, and then looked back at Alex.

"He's here to buy," Alex shouted, nudging him with his elbow.

Matt chimed, "Yeah, hi."

The guy took the lollipop out of his mouth, pointing the glistening ball at Matt. "How much?" he asked, not even bothering to raise his voice.

Matt leaned in, pressing his elbows over the sticky table. "Just a bag."

The guy's eyes flickered as he watched him, sizing him up and down, and then nodded once, jerking his head at the other boys at the table. They all shifted, giving him a way out, and he squeezed out of the booth, hopping down from the small platform.

His entire wardrobe glittered as he moved through the blue disco lights, skinny and tall. He didn't bother to wait for Matt before he disappeared through a black hallway scrawled with graffiti.

Matt glanced back helplessly, and Alex nodded at him and flashed him a thumbs up, like he was sending him off to war. Matt swallowed, nodded to himself and followed along, pushing through to the hallway. A faint red glowed at the end of it with the words EMERGENCY EXIT.

There were other people lining up against the walls. Belatedly, Matt realized that this was the line for the bathroom. The bleach blond ignored everybody around him, pushing the unlabelled door and walking in without saying anything. Everybody just let him do it.

The bathroom was small and cramped, with toilet paper littered everywhere on the tiled ground, the smell of piss so strong that people must have been pissing on the ceiling for years. Someone was definitely hooking up with someone else in one of the stalls, and the sounds of a mouth sucking were louder than the muted techno music outside.

Matt was about to head back out when the dealer strode straight up to the handicapped stall, ignoring the handwritten OUT OF ORDER sign plastered crudely on the door, and squeezed in. He gave Matt a look and then closed the door.

Goddamn, so this was _really _gonna happen.

Matt pulled his zipper up further, ignoring the blowjob happening two feet away from him, and took broad sticky steps across the checkered floor. He folded himself into the handicapped stall, closing it, and looked up at the bleach blonde with the toilet drab in the middle between the two of them.

They were chest-to-chest. The kid's blue eyeshadow glittered as he blinked, staring at Matt almost sleepily, his lollipop still wedged in his cheek.

Now that it was slightly brighter, Matt could see the tiny pupils swimming in his eyes. He was high as a fucking rocketship. "Hi," he said. "I'm Jamiroquai."

Matt frowned at the name, drawing an invisible pimphat in the air. "Like… _futures, made of, virtual in-sa-ni-ty_?"

The song kept playing in Matt's head even after Jamiroquai nodded sagely, as if his name was of great meaning to him. "Yes."

"Cool," Matt replied. "I'm Matt."

"Hi Matt. Is this your first time?"

Jamiroquai's words were slurred, almost like he could barely pronounce them. Barred out of his mind, no doubt.

Matt nodded. "First time."

Jamiroquai smiled finally at that, his expression softening enough that he looked nice for once, looking down at his blazer to produce a small stamp bag from his inner pocket. It had a fake GUCCI logo, pinched between two painted nails.

"It's 15," he said.

Matt was already prepared for that, but he still had to stop his eyes from bulging at that price, looking down to busy himself with retrieving his wallet from his back pocket. He opened his wallet, fingering out fives, the sucking and groaning growing louder behind him.

He handed them over. Jamiroquai slid them out of Matt's hands, the large silver rings on all of his fingers cold to touch.

Three bills for a little stamp bag.

Matt smiled, tucking it into his pocket and ducking his head. "Thanks, man."

His smile stalled. Jamiroquai was still looking at him, his tongue pushing the lollipop back and forth in his mouth, his fingers hooked over the toilet paper holder below a hole in the stall wall.

Fuck, was that what Matt thought it was? Was Jamiroquai sending a message? Did he need something else as payment — was that why it was so cheap?

Jamiroquai quirked a brow, taking his lollipop out of his mouth and crossing his arms. His expression fell back to its bitchy state as he jerked his head back at the door coolly. "Go get your friend."

Oh. Right. Matt nodded to himself, mouthed a thanks and ran out of the bathroom before he could hear anybody's climax.

* * *

The rain had stopped outside, but it was still real fucking cold. Matt was leaning over the railing of the fire escape, smoking a cigarette, making sure both of his bags were still safely in his pockets. It was almost time for him to start heading back if he still wanted to be in Mello's good graces — at least for the first day in New York, he decided — but he wanted just a few more minutes to himself.

He exhaled, the wind blowing through his hair as he stared down at the garbage dump in the alleyway below. Two people were talking, their heads pressed close to each other, barely illuminated by the streetlight on the sidewalk a ways away from them. Rats ran around in circles, jumping from dumpster to dumpster and scuttling off into the darkness.

Smelled like shit, even on the second floor.

The door opened behind him, Eurotrance beats leaking in from behind, making the steel grate underneath his boots shake. Matt looked back, seeing Alex slip through the emergency exit door with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter clasped in his hand.

"You got your shit from Jamiroquai?" Matt asked.

"Yeah," Alex replied, tapping a stick out of the box and slipping it between his lips. "He's great, love the kid."

Matt chuckled, turning back to stare at the garbage dump. The people looked like they were dancing, swaying to an invisible beat. "He's barred the fuck out, dude."

The sound of a lighter clicked from behind him. Thumping over the steel grate followed as Alex heaved himself down on the steps. "What do you mean?"

"All that slurring," Matt said, shaking his head. "I could barely understand him."

"Yeah, 'cuz he's hearing impaired."

Matt laughed.

"No, I'm serious."

"What? He's a deaf dealer at a gay nightclub?"

Fuck, actually, that made a lot of sense. No wonder the music was so goddamn loud.

Alex looked at him funny, his eyebrows raised. "What, you got a problem with deaf people, too?"

"No, Jesus," Matt said, sighing. Tough crowd. "Just seems like he's got a lot on his plate already."

"Yeah, well, he seems fine with it."

Matt shrugged. In the alleyway, the drunk conversation between the two lovebirds was starting to get loud. In the distance, police sirens punctured the air, and Matt pulled his vest tighter around his body as the wind blew through his hair again.

New York was seriously cold.

"There used to be another dude here who dealt opiates, actually," Alex suddenly said, breaking the silence. Matt looked over, pulling his sleeves over his hands as he sucked his cigarette to the filter. "He was hearing, had lots of different pills. I used to get oxy from him back then. But, y'know, he got capped. Huge turnover rate."

Matt hummed, finishing his cigarette and lifting up his boot to put out the butt on his sole before he tossed it over the ledge. "You been using a long time?"

"Yeah, around three years. Jamiroquai's the only guy I've seen for longer than a year."

Matt frowned, pursing his lips. The people in the alleyway were starting to throw punches, yelling at one another.

"Damn, what's going on over there?" Alex asked, twisting around to look over.

"Some drunks fighting." Matt looked away, mumbling. "I'm kinda nervous to take a subway with this much dope on me, honestly."

Alex grinned. "It's worth it. Just don't jaywalk and you'll be fine."

Matt snorted, shaking his head. "How worth it is that?"

Alex looked back, flicking his own cigarette butt between the bars of the stairs and pulling himself up by the handrail. "Seriously, the best shit I've ever had."

Matt gave him a look as he walked back, holding open the door as the music pulsed through the staircase and the people downstairs screamed. "Really?"

"Yeah, really," Alex responded, his bright white teeth glinting in the night. "It's so good that if Jesus was deaf and gay, I'd fucking believe it."


	22. Chapter 22

Matt woke up to Mello typing on the computer again. He'd had barely any sleep. Heroin would be a great sleep aid, but he couldn't use with reckless abandon like he normally would have wanted to, lest his withdrawal symptoms got noticeable again. Whenever he started to get antsy, he took a day off or two, and slept worse for it.

It wasn't ideal, but it was what he had to do in order to get his fix and keep the work coming. Besides, he knew that tomorrow, he would have a day to himself.

So it really wasn't too bad. Really. It could be way, way worse.

It was Sunday morning. Matt had to pick up the car later for their mission tomorrow. The day was shining behind the grey curtains, though Mello kept them closed. When Matt emerged from the bathroom after his morning shower, towelling his wet hair, Mello was cracking his neck, popping another round of his pills at the desk. That was all Mello did recently — pop pills.

Re: who was the junkie now.

Mello flipped over a sheet of memo paper, staring at some numbers he'd scrawled down. Looking at the NPA digits that he'd lifted from a previous mission, probably. Still none of Matt's concern.

Matt was just supposed to play backup tomorrow. Keep the lines running smoothly, making sure that the coast was clear and that whoever was there wasn't doing anything they weren't supposed to. It was low-stakes, especially since Mello wanted him to be completely invisible.

Matt was good at invisible.

Matt walked back to his bed to grab the ashtray and a pack of cigarettes. He glanced up at the clock by the bedside table as he pinched a cig between his lips. Needed to be in Flushing by 2:30 — then he had to get his ass back here to test the GSM bug on his phone so that he could tap into Mello's calls. Matt hadn't perfected the art of phreaking just yet, which meant that the set up was still pretty amateur.

Still, it was the best he could do in a two-day span.

He turned on the TV with the remote as he flipped his wet hair out of his eyes, struggling to find his lighter from messily strewn comforters. The hotel introduction channel music slithered into the room, sounding like soft 80s jazz.

"We'll be establishing connection tomorrow," Mello said finally, putting down his pen on the table. "We're choosing the officer who isn't currently acting as L."

Matt nodded, unearthing the lighter from under the pillow and lighting his cig. "What time?" he asked, sitting down at the end of the bed and pulling the ashtray into his lap.

No more hotel music. Matt changed the channel. ABC. Flip. More news. Flip. Sairas' wrinkly old face. Flip. Samurai Jack. Fuck, he loved that show.

"By 10 PM tonight for the Delta flight," Mello responded.

Matt looked up. "'Kay. Where will you be meeting him?"

Samurai Jack pulled out his katana in the moonlight, glinting with a sharp _ding!_ Mello said, "I won't be."

"Hm?"

"I'll get killed if I show my face."

Matt tilted his head, frowning. "Then where are you taking him?" he asked.

"To Near."

"_Near_?"

"Near thinks that Kira is the current L," Mello responded levelly, his back still turned. "I want to see if that's true, but like hell I'll take the fall for it."

Matt blinked. "Wait, you mean you're…" He paused. Stopped. Restarted. "… You're going to bait Kira to kill Near?"

"As a worst case scenario," Mello replied nonchalantly. "The best case is that we make the NPA realize that Kira is among them, because they don't know."

Matt opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. Blinked again. Laughed uneasily, because he wasn't really sure what other reaction to give.

Even after all these years, Mello really was able to just casually count involuntary manslaughter as part of collateral for a mission, as long as it was Near's head on the pike. Psychos were psycho, Matt supposed.

Mello pushed his chair back with a hearty _sciiiirtch_ against the carpeted floor, turning his body around to look at Matt. His pinkish left eye glowed underneath puffy scarred skin, his skin like raw shrimp, and Matt couldn't help but look away.

Back to Samurai Jack. Back to the wall. Back to something else.

Mello shifted his laptop away from the glare of the morning sun, pointing at the screen. "We'll be meeting him."

Matt looked back warily. On the screen was a solid unit of a man, looking big and domineering, features carved out of stone. In the furigana above his Japanese name: _Mogi Kanichi_.

"Yeah, seems like a cool dude," Matt answered at length. Maybe he was naive, but he didn't really want to see anybody die tomorrow.

* * *

By the grace of God, Matt found a baby blue El Camino from 1968 on Craigslist, its windows tinted at 70, gutted like it'd been drag racing since yesterday. He'd gotten it for around 50k, paid all in cash, and yeah, it kind of left a significant dent on his savings.

But it was a really beautiful fucking car, all things considered.

The next afternoon, Matt sat in his nice new car, smelling his sweet new car smell, and watched as busy little heads bobbed one by one out of the subway station exit. It was in downtown Manhattan, in plain sight of Near's Kira building, and Matt was on the lookout for the stocky Japanese dude named Mogi and his friends who had hitched the same flight over from LA.

_Here he is_, came an OTR message on Matt's laptop from Mello.

And so he was. Barrelling out of the flimsy door of a yellow taxicab, his crew-cut standing six feet proud, Mogi was wearing a tan suit jacket and bottlenecking the middle of a busy sidewalk.

"I've exited Nick Street Station," Mogi's accented English announced, a thick layer of static masking his voice over the interceptor as he looked around his surroundings. The quality was shit, and the other layer of interception of his recording software probably made the soundbite inaudible.

Still, he did what he could do.

"Good," Mello's voice answered. "Enter the building right across from you."

Matt leaned closer to the window to watch Mogi with the phone held to his ear, walking past the sidewalk towards the long steps that led to Near's building. According to Mello, the SPK were somewhere up on the sixteenth floor. The call was most likely going to cut before that.

_He's in_, Matt keyed in. Here started Phase 2.

Mello's message responded: _Keep an eye on the tails_.

Matt squinted as another taxi cab pulled up just beside his passenger seat window, letting out two more Japanese men, their suits similarly prim, both on their phones. They swept past Matt's car, peering over at the SPK building before standing around at the square in front of the fountain.

One of them stayed, while another shifted between an alleyway, disappearing from sight.

Mello's phone beeped over the bug as the call disconnected. A new line had been established, and Matt glanced down at his phone to tap into the new one as it connected through the dial tone.

"Hal," Mello's voice greeted roughly as Matt watched one of the men sit down on the ledge of the fountain, tucked behind a hot dog stand. "Get me Near."

Matt quirked a brow as he propped his elbow up against the wheel. So Mello had a rat inside the base. Matt didn't know that.

"Near," Mello said gruffly, "A man named Mogi from the NPA is coming up to the SPK headquarters to see you. He's tall. Around 6'2"."

Near responded with a curt exhale.

"I'm going to use you today," Mello continued. "Let him in and ask him everything that you need. Keep this cell phone on so that I can hear everything that's being said. If L really is Kira, then convince me."

Feedback followed, bleeping and blooping through the layers of airwaves. Matt watched the Japanese man by the hot dog stand frown as he turned up his phone volume, and then heard Near's voice finally over his eavesdropper.

"Hello, pleased to meet you," Near's lukewarm voice said. "My name is Near. Please sit down. There are things I want to ask you."

Matt looked up to see the Japanese man frowning deeply, an expression of horror on his face. Over the call played the sound of a swivel chair. Some creaking, some footsteps. Guns cocking. No words, until Near spoke up.

"Mogi, isn't it?"

Mogi didn't respond. Mello was waiting. Near was silent.

Matt jogged his laptop before it went to the screensaver, and typed into the messaging portal. _Tails are surprised._

"All Mello wants to do is capture Kira, just like us," Near continued. "Won't you cooperate with us? Even if it means putting your life at stake?"

Matt bit his lip. Mello sent back, _They are listening in on the line._

Jesus, that must have meant that there were at least six people on this fucking call. What was this, a conference meeting?

"I've heard that you met the former L. The real L. Is that correct?" Near paused. "Are any of your colleagues currently or previously suspected of being Kira within the National Police Academy? A yes or no would suffice."

Silence, still. Matt had known about Mello's mafia chase, covering their tracks — he'd also known that Mello had been in close quarters with Kira himself. But the specific details of the Kira case had always been things that Mello had held close to his chest. Matt didn't ask questions, and Mello never answered anything.

It was his first time hearing it all unfiltered, thrust into the middle of the chase. Matt didn't know what to think.

"Mello," Near's voice said suddenly. "It seems that this agent's been influenced already to not say anything about Kira."

"I think so, too," Mello's voice responded, his timed entrance cool and clear. There was the crack of a chocolate bar on the other end, even though he never ate chocolate that goddamn loudly other than when he was making a point. "There isn't a reason for him to not want to cooperate with us. He's still clearly under some form of influence, even if not directly through the notebook."

Near vs. Mello, just like the old Debate Club days. Matt shook his head to himself, pulling out a cigarette from his vest pocket and squinting at his laptop as he flicked on his lighter.

From Mello: _Make sure they don't move_.

Matt narrowed his eyes, rolling down the window a small crack as he puffed his cig. The NPA member was still sitting by the fountain, surrounded by carefree joggers around the square.

"I've already had some of my men test the notebook," Mello said, smoothly, completely unnoticeable that he was having two conversations at once. "Nobody had died within thirteen days of writing in it."

Near continued, "If a person did not write a name for more than thirteen days, they do not die. Does anything strike you as odd about this?"

What a stupid rule. Still, Mogi wasn't talking. The guy was hard.

"All we want to do is catch Kira. We have no reason to lie to you. I'm sure that working with someone who was formerly under suspicion is uncomfortable for you, as well. It would be much easier if we talked about it, and we solved this problem once and for all."

Nobody spoke. Near's weird psychologist's inflection resonated in Matt's brain stem, ricocheting around the grooves of his skull. Seconds ticked on into minutes, punctured only by Mello's chocolate bar like a chiming clock.

Mogi had stayed silent for the whole meeting, but Matt didn't know what it meant — if it was admission of guilt, mind control, or pure assholery.

Or maybe all of the above.

But it sounded like silence regardless. In every prolonged pause, Matt was expecting pandemonium. Somebody to kill somebody else. Guns, screams, Kira to emerge, notebook in hand. But nothing happened, still, and still again ten minutes in.

Mogi didn't say shit.

* * *

Three hours later, Mogi still hadn't budged, and nobody had made another move. Mello and Matt had given up on communicating, leaving the silence over their OTR messaging system to fill up the ride. He wanted to test his new car's speakers, but he hadn't brought any CDs with him to NYC and he didn't have time to hook Miku up.

This meant that he was listening to Adult Alternative for the past hour and a half. _That was Nickelback's Rockstar._ That was a load of crap. _Now, some Foo Fighters' The Pretender_…

The NPA guys had left the square sometime around 3 PM and had moved to the cafe across the street from Matt's car, sitting by the window with coffee cups in their hands, looking bored. He wasn't sure if they were supposed to do that, but they were still on the call. People had needs, he supposed.

Like Matt, who was beginning to crave a hot dog.

For the fifth time in an hour, Near prodded, "You can speak, Mogi. We will not judge you." Or something along those lines. But Mogi was ice cold. It was an auditory Mexican standoff, but nobody was winning.

Matt kept his interceptor plugged in through his car's battery, but he'd long since graduated to playing QWOP on his laptop with the Starbucks wifi from down the street.

He got to 70m before the dude onscreen ate shit, toppling over onto his back.

A blonde chick jogged past with a tracksuit that had the word JUICY dancing over her ass, her hair swinging to-and-fro as she ran through the square. A tourist lumbered past his car with sunglasses on, horking down a relish-covered hot dog. Some college-aged chick with a pin-covered backpack walked across the street, texting vigorously on her Blackberry without looking up for traffic.

New message on his laptop: _Where are the tails?_

Matt ignored the alert and restarted his QWOP game, his guy raising his left leg and dragging his right knee on the sandy rubber. Ouch. The racer fell to his knees and his bones cracked. He finished at 8m this time.

The pop-up said: _everybody is a winner_.

Matt switched tabs to the Sairas falling game that was #1 most popular on Newgrounds this week. He flung the President through the bubbles, watching as he slithered through the cracks and dislocated his spine over a human-sized, rock-hard bubble.

Another alert popped up, the window flashing: _Answer._

Jesus H. Christ, this was fucking torture. He'd finished his box of cigs already, and his windows weren't even tinted enough to do anything that he didn't want to be caught doing.

Matt typed: _They're at a cafe beside your building._

Then he sighed, sticking his hand into his vest pocket deeper, his fingers brushing against the silky texture of wax paper. Yeah, he _did_ have that — and his last hit was a while ago; almost twenty-four hours. He'd kept his junk on him in case Mello ever felt crazy enough to go through his belongings again, and now, suddenly, it seemed like a pretty good idea.

Would he?

Not in the car. He needed to darken the tint still. His plates were already unregistered, and he had an illegal gun in his boot. The very last thing he wanted was to nod off in the car and wake up to the fuzz.

Matt sat up, stretching his spine out on the leather seats, and unplugged his cell phone. Then he sent Mello another message: _Taking a piss break. Brb._

The response: _Brb?_

Matt ignored it, switching Dave Grohl off and cracking his neck as he opened the door. He shoved his hands in his pocket to hold onto his stamp bags as he jogged across the street to the cafe closest to the square, right where the NPA agents were sitting, their faces turned to the window like watchdogs.

Come on, Matt deserved this.

He pushed the door open to windchimes, sidling past the counter. The men didn't cast a glance in his direction, preoccupied still by the phone call that wasn't going anywhere, as Matt slipped into the hallway to borrow their single-use bathroom stall for a few minutes.

* * *

The hotel door hissed open and shut as Matt sidled through, cold and wet takeout bags in both of his hands. It'd started to drizzle again outside, and Matt hadn't packed appropriately. His corduroy vest was dark brown, his boots leaving sloppy footprints on the dark red carpet.

Matt deposited the takeout boxes beside the TV and shook his hair out, flinging droplets everywhere around him. His goggles were fogging up in the warmth of the hotel room, and he strung them around his neck in irritation as Mello spoke up from the armchair near the sheer curtains.

"We're not going to be able to leave New York soon," he said, lounging over the satin, a chocolate bar hinged in his teeth. He looked like a Bond villain, with the dark scar and the shiny leather pants glinting in the lamp light.

Matt shrugged his vest to the ground and grabbed the hem of his damp shirt, cleaning his goggles with them. "Yeah, I know."

"Where are the tails staying?"

Matt nodded, replacing the goggles and blinking as he ambled over to his bedside. "They're here," he said, emptying his pockets. Receipts, key card, car key, cigarettes. "At the Centurion. But I couldn't follow them in."

_Crack_. "You don't know the floor, then?"

Matt slumped down on the bed beside his shit and yanked his boot off, dropping it onto the ground with a thud and a sigh. "No."

"Can you find their CCTV?"

Matt was tempted to say no, but he answered truthfully, "Yeah, I can probably access it pretty easily."

"Good," Mello said, rewrapping his chocolate bar, crinkling the tin foil loudly. "Then you can find out exactly which floor they're on, and when they're coming and going."

Matt nodded, lifting a cig from his now empty pack as he watched Mello rise from the chair and walk across the hotel room towards the food. Mello untied the knot in the takeout bag, his leather gloves squeaking against the foam container as he peeked into the box. "What is this, burrito?"

"Yeah," Matt said, lighting up. "There's a burrito bowl, too, if that isn't your thing."

Mello put the burrito box back down, reaching for the box underneath and picking it up into his hand. Picky goddamned eater. That never changed.

Though Matt noticed Mello was a little different since he'd landed in New York. Calmer, less of a weird bitch about things. He gave Matt his own space, and wasn't batshit about Matt not following exactly what he said to a tee.

He was, for the lack of a better word, nice. Relatively, of course. Because Matt still hadn't gotten paid yet.

"Uh, by the way," Matt said offhandedly, picking up one of his receipts from off the comforter. "I wrote up an IOU for you."

Mello looked up at him from the desk, about to shovel a forkful of burrito rice into his mouth. "Did you?"

"Yeah," Matt said, squinting at his own scribble. "Do you want a breakdown?"

Mello put the fork down. "Just give me the total."

"You owe me $38,180.90 on top of my salary," Matt read aloud. "I took out the $15,000 you gave me when I got here."

"Alright. Thanks."

Mello turned back around.

Matt blinked. His crinkled IOU fluttered back onto his lap as he watched Mello fork something into his mouth, chewing. He kept watching until Mello swallowed, waiting for him to say something else.

Mello did not. He dug his fork into his food and left it there, satisfied with one bite, and then went back to his laptop.

"... Okay?" Matt scoffed. "What am I, your paypig?"

Mello turned around to stare at him. "What?"

"I said, you owe me $38,000 and my salary," Matt remarked, snubbing out his cigarette. "So you wanna write a check, maybe? Give me a few more rolls of cash? Wire me?"

Mello narrowed his eyes, giving him a once-over, before he spoke. "I can't touch my money right now in New York," he said slowly, as if Matt was stupid. "Besides, it's not exactly easy to transfer $100,000."

Matt shrugged. "You had that 15,000."

"That was cash I brought over."

"So, what about just the car then?" Matt picked up the receipt again, reading aloud, "$37,100?"

"I'll give it to you when I can," Mello said, shaking his head. "You have enough to last you another month."

Matt looked away. Not if he wanted to get enough heroin to last him until February. But he didn't want Mello to know that. "What if I said I didn't?"

"Then you'd be lying," Mello responded coolly. "You're an adult, Matt. Learn how to budget."

Matt glowered, folding up the IOU-receipt. He grabbed his wallet out of his back pocket, thin and light in his hand, and shoved the piece of paper inside.

"Lunch tomorrow is on you," Matt grumbled. Mello rolled his eyes and turned around to face his laptop again, marking their conversation Over.

* * *

After Mello went to sleep, Matt peeled himself away from his bed, slithering into the hallway. It was 4:32AM.

He'd been waiting, and waiting, and waiting and waiting and waiting.

Matt knew he had to scale back on using, especially since his funds were low. But it'd been a long fucking day, and he couldn't stand it anymore.

He tiptoed into the bathroom with his duffel bag, closed the door behind him, and turned the lock. He felt the wall for the lightswitches blindly, watching the bulbs flicker over top of the mirror when he found them, and then turned on the faucet as white noise.

Matt knew Mello was a light sleeper from when they were younger. He assumed it had gotten worse over the years that they'd fallen out of contact, and he really just didn't want to take the risk.

He was going to kill Mello before he let him ruin this for him.

Matt closed the toilet seat, easing himself quietly on top of the porcelain, and stuck his fingers into the front pocket of his jeans. The wax paper crinkled between his fingers, the lump of H already noticeably smaller since the first time he'd shot up at Alex's place. He pulled it out and set it over the counter, reaching into his duffel bag with his other hand to dig past all of his hard drives.

He rummaged around, trying to keep quiet under the sound of the faucet, before he found them.

Zippo. Spoon. Syringe.

He spread his paraphernalia out over the countertop, arranging them neatly on top of the hotel hand towels. In the center of the summoning circle was the Gucci stamp bag, the faint pink logo glowing like a designer heroin ad, surrounded by expensive _eaux de toilettes_.

Matt sat up and pushed the envelope open. He pinched a small amount, watching the powder dance with the water. The bottom of his spoon charred black as he cooked. His left hand was shaking, holding onto the murky solution like it was liquid gold.

Almost…

He soaked the needle through cotton and filled the barrel. Legs up and feet arched, he popped the needle into a dark vein by his big toe, pulling up the plunger and watching a burst of red with a slow, shaky breath.

3, 2...

Matt pushed.

The tingles started from his foot, spreading to his ankle, up to his thighs and hips. Slowly, the coziness travelled to his chest, his neck, his head, his brain.

It ballooned, spreading outwards. His body became the liquid gold, oozing bliss and warmth, shimmering all over the surface. Everything was fine. Nothing could go wrong.

Matt knew this was what Heaven was like.

When he came back to earth, his mouth was wide open and the needle was still in his foot. He still felt the buzz, the weightlessness of his body, the lightness of his brain and his thoughts. Around his shoulders, he felt warmth wrapping him up like a hug from God.

His heart was full. It felt like love.

Matt blinked and yanked the needle out of his foot, brushing the beaded blood away. The faucet was still running, loud in his reverie.

Christ almighty, Alex was right. This was good. Really goddamned good.

Matt could feel it in his fucking _toenails_.


	23. Chapter 23

A protest broke out at the foot of the SPK building three days after Mello had lured Mogi Kanichi inside. Protestors congregated at the square, their banners held high.

It wasn't a coincidence. The SPK was hidden inside a 50-storey building, sandwiched between tax companies and law firms. They weren't visible unless you knew where to look.

The timing was convenient.

Mello shook his head, lifting his binoculars to his face as he watched from above. Not his circus, not his monkeys.

Kira was using his zombies today. Mindless droves, all trying to impress their juvenile God. They trickled out from the subway stations and parked cars, moving towards the front doors with masks and bandanas.

They didn't stop. They kept coming.

The square filled, packing against the SPK building like writhing maggots, pushing up to the front door.

Mello frowned. The people were multiplying. The streets clogged, stopping traffic. The loud, bellowing engine of a low-flying plane pulled Mello's eyes up to the sky.

Three helicopters were circulating the building, like flies to shit. A booming voice ricocheted off the glass buildings. _We have discovered our enemy hideout! The SPK have been hiding in this building!_

It was no protest. It was a raid, performed by an army of thousands. There was no way Near could make it out of that alive.

Mello's phone buzzed over his desk. He reached backwards, flipping the cover open with a flick of his wrist, and held it to his ear. "Talk to me."

"What the fuck is going on?" Matt's voice came in from the other end.

Mello frowned, remembering Matt was outside. He didn't think he'd be caught in the center of the chaos. "Where are you?"

"I'm trying to get back in," Matt responded, grumbling over the speaker. The megaphone echoed over his end of the call. Mello's binocular combed through the crowd, seeking him. "The hotel is swarmed."

There he was. A head of dark reddish hair, moving in the opposite direction of the crowd. Matt slipped between two parked cars, pacing quickly.

"Find a place to hide," Mello told him.

Matt rolled his eyes. "Working on it."

Mello followed his figure along the sidewalk, watching as someone barrelled into his shoulder, pushing him back. Matt flipped him off, shaking his head and hunching over, and sidled through the crowd quickly, farther along the road.

There was an opening only a few feet away. Mello said, "Turn left."

"Left?"

"Left. Now."

Matt turned obediently, pushed along against the crowd of people before he emerged on the other side of the stream. It was at the entrance of a bank. People were standing around, hiding behind the columns where security guards had guns.

He was safer here.

Matt slipped behind an empty column, shaking his head. "Jesus Christ," he grumbled as he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket. "Where the fuck are you? You can see me?"

"Yes," Mello replied. Matt lit his cigarette, his hand shielding the flame. "Stay there. Don't move."

"What is going on?"

The crowd filtered around the column. It didn't stop growing, heading towards the SPK doors, up the stairs of the building. At the front doors, there was a crush forming.

"It's a raid," Mello answered. Matt had a finger plugging his other ear as the noise grew louder over his receiver.

"No shit. On Near?"

"I think so."

"You think Kira did this?"

Mello quirked a brow. "Maybe."

Matt frowned as the noise got louder. He yelled. "I can't—"

_Boom_.

Mello looked over at the noise. Dusty smoke billowed against the glass windows of the SPK, black and thick. The site of the crush.

Matt's voice was panicked. "What was that?"

Screaming. People were running. The crowd let up and flowed back to the other end of the street, tiny heads bobbling for dear life.

Over the call, someone cried, "It's Al Qaeda!"

"Mello," Matt repeated, urgently. "What's going on?"

Lights flashed down the street. Sirens wailed.

"Mello?"

"They bombed the front door," Mello answered, watching as the rioters tore down the entrance.

"Are they gonna take down the whole building?"

"Maybe."

"And kill Near and Mogi and everyone?"

"… Maybe."

Another scream. The crowd was moving and pointing their fingers to the sky. At the column, Matt tossed his head back and looked up, the wind whipping through his hair.

"Holy fucking shit," he said.

Mello followed his line of sight. The sky was blue and bright, and something was falling. Bits and pieces showered into the crowd like confetti from halfway up the building.

It billowed out from the office window steadily.

Mello squinted. "Is that—"

"That's—"

It was money.

The crowd screamed. They reversed. People were falling. They were running.

Everybody wanted the money.

Mello refocused on the column to find Matt, but he wasn't there anymore. Throngs of people replaced him, moving shoulder-to-shoulder toward the square.

"Matt," Mello called out, his binoculars scanning through the crowd. "I lost you. Where are you? Matt?"

The noise was too loud on the phone. Screams and shouts and helicopter blades. Mello couldn't hear him. He couldn't see him.

Suddenly, the call went dead.

Mello frowned, his binoculars still roving. There were too many heads. There was no space to move. People climbed fire hydrants and jumped around. Kira supporters, regular citizens, tourists and workers alike.

It was chaos. He redialed Matt's phone number.

A gunshot resounded. Packs screamed. Behind his hotel room door, footsteps charged down the hallway and into the elevator. Shouts of excitement, like there was a party downstairs to attend.

Mello couldn't see a way out of the crowd. Matt was gone.

The call didn't go through.

Mello redialled, staring out the window as his breaths came faster.

Call failed. Please try again.

Redial.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Shit. Mello hurled his phone onto the carpet, storming away from the window.

If Matt lost his cell phone, that meant he lost their eavesdropper, too. If the wrong person found it, they were both fucking dead.

* * *

"Ow! Watch it!"

Someone kept pushing Matt along the Great Wave off Lower Manhattan until he was stumbling down steps and crashing into people's backs.

People were going insane for a little bit of cash. Pushing and shoving and knocking elbows and crashing knees, and Matt was getting winded and punched over and over again.

Somebody knocked into his mouth and almost knocked a tooth out with it.

"Fuck you!"

Matt slapped his hand over his mouth, cradling his jaw. He was in the mosh pit of the writhing New York City worms, worse than New Years' Eve at Times Square, and he couldn't breathe. Everybody smelled awful, everybody was pushing.

It was like Club Escape all over again, but this time, people were angrier. Vicious. Putting their hands up in the air to grab a little fifty dollar bill.

Well, Matt didn't want any fucking money. He just wanted to get out to see another day.

The cops were here. He could hear the sirens and smell the tear gas. People were dispersing and running and fuck — Matt was getting closer to the square, closer to the looming SPK building, even though he didn't want to be.

Matt shoved his hands in his pockets and ducked, pushing his elbows out, getting a few people in the ribs. People were yelling, calling him a fucking cunt, but he ignored them and turned his body around as much as he could.

Back in his Club Escape mode. Fuck it. He was going in.

Or out.

He pushed through, swimming upstream. People let him through easily, dodging him. Their eyes were on the money. They didn't give a fuck about anybody who was trying to get out.

Matt pushed and shoved, bumped and jabbed, poked and kneed his way back to somewhere where he could breathe.

Pushing. Pushing. Pushing. Was this what being born was like?

He was in the crowd's uterus for what seemed like hours under the sunny heat before suddenly, he saw the light at the end of the vag.

A bubble of space, over the row of heads.

He turned, pushing through to it. The street narrowed as he crossed over just as down the street, and more people started screaming. More bangs and more helicopters. A shot rang through the sky.

Matt was not going to be a stillbirth, goddamnit.

The crowd popped him out the side of Nick Street, right near the subway entrance. People were running up and down in zombie hoards on the subway stairs, but there was a pocket of space in the middle of the road.

When he got closer, he realized why.

A middle-aged man was bleeding out on the street, blood staining his button-up shirt, barely breathing. A teenaged girl was holding a crumpled tissue to his chest, wiping at his blood desperately.

"Somebody help," she sobbed. A mound of tissues sat balled up beside her, soaked in red.

The crowd watched like they were tuning in for the grand finale of a soap opera, mumbles of shock and dismay. Matt took a deep breath and looked away, edging along the perimeter of the crowd.

He palmed his back pocket for his phone to call Mello again now that he was somewhere where the crowd had thinned.

There was nothing in his pockets.

What?

Matt looked down, his heart sinking. He dug his hand in deeper, trying to find it. Maybe it was tucked in too deep. Sometimes that happened.

The pocket was empty.

"Shit," he grumbled, patting himself down. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

He tried the right side, he tried the front two, he tried his vest pocket, he tried the inside of his boot, he tried digging up his ass.

Nada. Zilch. No tengo.

"Fuck," he groaned. Maybe he didn't check enough. Maybe it was buried in one of his pockets and he just needed to empty them out to see.

Shit, he needed to find someplace to stop, with enough room to look through his stuff. If there was any place where there was enough room for him to…

Matt looked up over the moving crowd, scanning the storefronts. A pizza place stood with multicolor flags flapping in the wind, but the inside was packed to the brim, with a lineup of people on the sidewalk looking through the windows. Another shoestore was across the street, but it was packed like a mosh pit.

A flower shop down the street looked promising.

Matt moved. The window glinted.

Somebody had smashed all the glass and looted everything. Flowers. Why the fuck did anybody want to steal flowers?

Then, farther down the street, Matt saw a sleek black office building with a glowing salon on the first floor. He couldn't see inside, but the windows were intact, and there looked like there was a waiting area that was completely empty.

There. That one.

If it wasn't closed or locked, he could go there.

Matt pushed through the crowd, wading through baby carriages and little children and college students towards the salon entrance. He was surprised when he pulled the handle of the heavy glass doors and it actually gave way. For some reason, this place was actually safe.

When the door swung shut behind him, slapping him flat across the ass, Matt understood.

He felt like he'd walked into an alternate dimension. Older, rich-looking white women lined the shiny black floors, sitting on fold-out couches like an elaborate set. Asian ladies sat by their feet, scrubbing their toes and painting their toenails. All over the walls were stippled artworks of old Hollywood icons. Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, Elizabeth Taylor.

Matt looked around. Some of the white ladies looked over and stared, leaning over to whisper to each other at the sight of him.

"Good afternoon," a girl at the front desk greeted, her ice blonde hair tied back into a tight ponytail. "Do you have an appointment with us today, sir?"

"What?" Matt looked back and frowned. Then he remembered his purpose again. "No. Gimme a few seconds. I need to find my phone."

"I'm sorry sir, but we're not taking any walk-ins today—"

Matt shook his head, ignoring her as he walked over to the black seats in the waiting area. She was still talking, but he blocked her out, bending over to lay his pants' contents out in front of him.

He still had his wallet. Thank God for Hot Topic wallet chains. He had his lighter, his pack of cigarettes, his car keys, a crumpled receipt, a few pennies and quarters, and another receipt. In his vest was his heroin — oh, shit, he should put that back — and a plastic lollipop wrapper —

"Sir, please," the girl said, rounding the corner with her black pants swishing, her heels clicking and clacking. "We're currently open for customers only."

"Hold on," Matt answered quickly, patting his thighs down.

"I'll have to ask you to leave."

"Give me a second." He unzipped his vest, feeling the inside of the collar. Any inner pockets?

"Sir—"

"Just let me find my phone," he snapped, shaking his pockets.

"Please—"

"Just let me find my phone," he repeated. "Let me find my phone."

"I can't—"

"Just let me find my phone. Let me find my phone. Let me find my phone!"

His voice echoed over the shiny tiles, rising to an uncomfortable volume. The whole salon fell quiet.

The girl took a few careful steps back towards the front desk, and Matt pulled his pockets inside out, feeling around again.

Lint. Dust. Some tobacco. No fucking phone.

Shit, Matt really fucked up this time.

"Oh fuck," Matt breathed, staring at the dismal, dirty-looking collection of things lined up on the leather couch. "Fucking fuck fuck, where could it—"

"Sir," the girl said calmly.

Matt looked up, glancing back at the front desk. The girl had the landline phone cradled to her ear now, her mascara-lined blue eyes staring at him wide, like she wouldn't even blink to let him out of her sight. "You are disturbing our clientele," she said coldly.

Matt straightened, putting up his hands. "Hey, hey. Do you _know_ what's going on outside?"

She glared. "If you don't leave right now, I'll call security."

Matt glanced at the ladies behind them in the pedicure area staring at him openly, their powdered, wrinkly faces shocked. Then his eyes drifted over to the phone again, the girl's magenta nails holding onto the receiver tightly.

"Okay. I'm going, I'm going," Matt said slowly, biting his lip. "But… can I just borrow your phone real quick?"

The girl responded by leaning towards the receiver. She said, "Security."

Matt shook his head, picking up the last of his shit and shoving them back into his pockets. "I'm gone. I'm gone. I'm gone."

She stared at him, still holding the phone to her face. "Hello, can I get security out here? There's a suspicious—"

Matt heaved the doors back open, and ended back on the street. People still gathered around the storefronts, multiplying on the sidewalks, but now, an ambulance had arrived at the intersection. There were more people crowding around the shooting. A stretcher was moving into the back of a van. More police sirens were wailing down the street.

Matt shook his head and gave himself another pat-down, still hoping to find his phone hidden somewhere that he forgot to check or that he just missed. In the fur lining of his vest. In his boot. Accidentally wedged between his sock and his foot.

Somewhere.

Someone was saying something. Matt was bending it like Beckham to find his goddamned cell. Come on, he couldn't fucking lose it. Mello was going to murder him. He was going to lynch him and hang him up to bleed him out. Mello was going to chop him up into little pieces and feed him to stray mafia dogs.

And, most importantly, Matt really couldn't afford to buy another fucking phone right now.

"Hey," someone said again.

Matt looked up. "Huh?"

An athletic-looking kid about Matt's age stood in front of him, dark hair slicked back with pomade. "I think you dropped this," he said, something pinched between his fingers. "Is this yours?"

Matt's heart picked up in hope as he looked over to see what the guy was holding. To his disappointment, it was only a card of some sort, thin and shiny. Matt pursed his lips, slumping. "No, that's not—"

A car drove past. It darkened the reflection off of the plastic, casting a shadow over the words. Suddenly Matt could read what was written over it: _Centurion Hotel_. _Enjoy a meal at the C&D Lounge!_

"Oh shit," Matt said, ducking his head. "Yeah, that is mine."

Christ. That was a close fucking call.

The guy grinned, handing it back to him. "No worries, man. You dropped it here. I was waiting for you to get out."

"Thanks," Matt mumbled, sliding it into his pocket.

"You okay?"

"Hm?"

The guy pointed a finger towards his lower lip. Matt touched his own mouth reflexively, and then felt something hard and painful on his fingers.

He pulled back, looking at his hand. Dried blood. He touched it again, and felt his lip sting this time. His finger came back wet and bright red.

Fuck. Someone got his lip cut up when they elbowed him in the face.

"Hey, uh, I think I saw you at the bank, dude," the guy continued. "Near the riots."

Matt tongued his cut lip, frowning. "Yeah?" he asked, dropping his hands to his sides to feel himself up for his phone. "Really?"

"Yeah. I remember your goggles." He grinned. "I was just there cashing my checks, bro."

Matt looked down, nodding distractedly. What was that — fuck. Just a lighter.

"What you looking for?"

"Uh…" Matt pulled his hands out of his pockets in defeat. "You didn't see a phone beside the key card by any chance, did you?"

The guy pulled his thick eyebrows together in thought, scratching his stubble. "No. Don't think so."

"Shit," Matt said, shaking his head.

That was it. He was getting fucked, like it or not. Time to lay back and enjoy it, because when Mello found out, he was going to destroy him.

"That sucks, bro," the guy responded. "You wanna borrow mine?"

Matt looked at him. The dude seemed nice enough — an innocent, stupid jock type — but Matt was already in deep shit, and he didn't want to fuck anything else up and worsen the situation.

Matt shook his head. "It's fine," he answered, waving his hand. "Thanks, though."

The guy nodded, shifting his weight. "Yeah, that's cool. That's cool."

They fell silent. The ambulance peeled away, carrying the shot man and his crying daughter along with them.

Fuck it. He needed to call Mello eventually.

"But, uh," Matt spoke up, tonguing his lip. "You know where the closest phonebooth is?"

"Oh, uh... there's one, like, just a few minutes away on the J line," the guy responded. "Near Bowery and Canal."

Matt squinted. "Uh… Bowery and…?"

"It's—" the guy started pointing a muscular arm in one direction, his gold watch catching the sunlight. "Like, Chinatown."

"Huh?"

"Oh." Realization seeped into the guy's features slowly. "_Oh_, right. You're not from around here, dude?"

Matt shook his head.

"Where you from? LA?"

"Yeah," Matt said. "How'd you know?"

The guy laughed. "Let's Go Lakers! I was just there this summer." Then he nodded to himself, "Yeah, I got a feeling. You looked kinda west coast to me, man."

Matt smiled politely, nodding. He was Canadian and didn't watch basketball.

"Hey, well," the guy said, sobering up. "I was gonna head there anyway. Come on. Let's go together."

Matt raised a brow. "Okay… thanks," he mumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets.

The guy sauntered in the direction of the subway exit, beckoning him to follow him with a jerk of his head. He was heading straight into the epicenter of the madness, like he was trying to get them both killed.

"Hey, hey, no," Matt called out. "We gotta go this way."

The guy whirled around, making a face. "What? But the subway's this way."

"No, there's no way to get down there."

Matt pointed, and the guy looked over. The entire subway was swamped with people trying to get out, running like a continuous stream on the staircase. With the bleeding man gone, the bubble wasn't even there anymore.

They had to run before the crowd caught up to them.

The guy turned around, his eyes wide. "Oh jeez," he mumbled.

"Yeah. We're going to have to go on foot."

The guy exhaled, shaking his head. "Fine. Okay. Then let's go this way."

They hustled, heading towards the other end of Manhattan. Matt couldn't believe the amount of people that lived here.

"Hey man," Matt said, jogging to the guy's side. "What's your name?"

"Danny. You?"

Matt licked his lip. The blood tasted salty on his tongue.

"I'm Zakk," Matt answered. "Nice to meet you."

* * *

Twenty minutes of walking later, Danny brought him over to a phone booth in the lower east end. The box was just by the side of the street, the glass broken, shards of it all over the sidewalk and the tires of the cars parked next to it.

Chinatown.

The sidewalks on this end were practically the Wild West. Parked cars and baby carriages, and some tourists who clearly had no idea what was going on. Chinese supermarkets lined the identical brown brick buildings, all with paper signs on the front door written in marker. _Out for a while… We'll Be Back!_

"Here you go, man," Danny said, clicking his tongue. "Your phone booth. Who do you gotta call so bad, anyway? Your girl?"

Matt cringed, snorting to himself. "Fuck no. My boss."

"Uh oh."

"Yeah. I'm late to a meeting."

Danny whistled as Matt slid through the broken accordion door. He stood at the phone and waited, watching Danny stay outside staring at him.

Matt waved. "Bye," he called out, through the broken windows.

"Oh. OK." Danny waved back, nodding as he whipped around. "Bye."

He walked further west. Matt waited until his white t-shirt was out of sight before he shook his head to himself and sighed, placing a few quarters into the slot and picking up the receiver. Over the speaker, the dial tone said hello.

Matt grabbed his key card and pressed on the metal digits, cradling the receiver to his mouth as he whispered the numbers written on the plastic to himself.

_Beep… Boop…. Deet… Doot…._

Done. It connected. _Brrrrr. Brrrrr._

A nice-sounding lady with a radio announcer voice picked up on the other end. "Centurion Hotel."

"Hi. Can I get Room 1210?"

"Guest name?"

"Huh?"

The lady rephrased. "Who is this call for?"

Matt squinted at the light blue sky on the other side of the phone booth window, tonguing his cut. Fuck, what kind of weird name did Mello go with this time? He vaguely remembered something super ordinary when Mello told him. "Uh… Joe… uh, Joe Smith?"

"Thank you. Please hold."

Matt waited as the call went through, staring at the brick buildings, at the fire escapes and the skinny spaced windows. He rubbed his busted lip idly, glancing down at his thumb to see if it was still bleeding, but his finger came back dry.

The line connected, singing and dancing in his ear. Matt watched as another police cruiser flew down the street, still tonguing his lip.

The dial tone stopped. Here went nothing.

Matt took a breath. "Hey..."

"Is this line safe?" came back Mello's stilted voice.

"Yeah," Matt answered. "I made it out alive."

"Where are you?"

"Near Chinatown."

"Chinatown?"

"Yeah. I'm using a payphone."

Mello stayed quiet, and Matt could feel his icy glare through the phone lines. Might as well just take the plunge.

"… Listen," Matt said, picking his dignity off the ground. "I lost my cell."

"I know," Mello responded coldly.

Matt took a deep breath, continuing. "There were a lot of people there, trying to get the money. Someone got shot. I just..." Matt trailed off. Another burst of police sirens shredded down east Manhattan, and Mello stayed quiet. "... dropped it."

Something shifted on the other line. More silence. Matt was fucked. He heard it in the air. Mello was going to decapitate him tonight.

Execute program: damage control.

"Look," Matt muttered. "Sorry. I didn't mean to."

No response.

"I didn't even realize I dropped it until I found a place to stop."

Still no response.

"Maybe I can try to find it again tonight," Matt continued, digging his grave deeper. "It's probably near the hotel—"

"Save it," Mello cut in. "Get us both new phones."

Matt frowned. "... Okay."

"I don't want any more fuck ups after this," Mello continued, his voice hard and stern. "Got it?"

Matt inhaled deeply, pressing his fingers against his busted lip. He felt like Mello was pulling his ear, calling him a failure. _I'm not angry, just disappointed_, and all the worst things that his mother used to say.

God, Matt really was a bitch to be this afraid of pissing Mello off.

"Okay," Matt mumbled to the quiet line, licking the blood away from his lip as it pooled over. "Yeah, I got it."

Mello hung up briskly, leaving Matt with nothing but silence.

* * *

The hotel room lock whirred. Matt was back. He shimmied through the door, a white plastic bag hooked around his wrist.

"About time," Mello said, looking over from the TV. "I dumped the phone. There was too much of a—Jesus Christ, what happened to you?"

Matt looked up, his bangs falling over his goggles. His face was covered in bruises. A dark one on his jaw, another red mark over his cheekbone. A scab at the side of his mouth sliced his lip.

"Bar brawl," Matt mumbled, wiping his scab as he walked in. The door slammed shut behind him and he flipped the latch into place. "You should see the other guy."

Mello looked away, exhaling through his mouth. "It's late," he said.

"Tell that to the NYPD," Matt grumbled, his heavy boots thumping over the carpets as he tossed the bag to the table beside the television set. "The police had this entire area fucking blocked off. I needed to bribe a cop to get let back in."

Mello bit his tongue, staring back at the screen.

He'd been waiting for hours. The NPA made no movements outside of their hotel room. The SPK had escaped the riots safely, and caution tape papered the front entrance of the building.

Nobody was allowed in or out.

Without his phone, Mello was stranded. He lost contact with Hal. He was unable to move. He was unable to keep tabs on Matt.

All because Matt dropped his phone in the fucking raid.

"What you watching?" Matt asked, feigning normalcy. "CSI?"

Mello looked over. Matt was staring at the television screen, a pack of cigarettes clasped in his hand, his lighter tucked between two fingers.

"Miami," Mello replied.

Matt tilted his head, watching for a few seconds. "Yeah. I saw this one. The dad kidnapped the baby to sell to the Mexicans."

Mello jerked his head disinterestedly, glancing at the plastic bag on the table.

"I got the new phones," Matt continued. "You need me to install another bug?"

"No," Mello said coldly. "I don't want this to happen again."

Matt blinked, an unlit cigarette dangling between his lips. Something like annoyance flitted over his features as he nodded. "Okay."

"I want you to find another way to intercept calls remotely," Mello continued, crossing his legs as he leaned back on his hands. "Something more secure."

"Yeah, yeah," Matt replied. His cigarette bounced over his words as he walked back to his bed. "I'll find a way."

"Tonight."

Matt glanced back, frowning. "What?"

"I need you to set up my phone tonight," Mello said, looking over. "I need to call the SPK."

Their eyes met. Matt was staring at him, about to say something. Mello could see it about to leave his lips, curled around the filter of his cigarette. Irritation.

Matt swallowed at the last moment, and a question came out instead. "The SPK got out alive?"

Mello nodded.

Matt cocked his head as he unzipped his corduroy vest and tossed it onto the bedspread. Mello looked away, watching as the dramatic background music of CSI swelled to a climax, cars rushing along the streets of Miami.

The lighter clicked on finally. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted to Mello's end of the hotel room, and Matt ambled back over to the table beside the television, his figure cutting through the image onscreen.

He unfolded the phone's cardboard box, crinkling the plastic casing as he pinched the new cell phone between his fingers. He rummaged into the bag again, trying to find something else inside, and Mello spoke up.

"What did I say about fingerprints?" he asked.

Matt looked back with a spark of annoyance, the corners of his lips frowning. "Fine," Matt replied. "Christ. Calm down."

"I am calm," Mello shot back.

Matt didn't respond. He walked back to his duffel bag to grab a pair of gloves. He swiped the memo pad off of the desk as he walked past it, holding it in his clunky hands as he stomped back to the TV.

Mello looked away. He heard the scribble of something on the piece of paper, and then a rip as Matt tore it off the memo pad.

Neither of them spoke again until Matt finished setting up.

"There," Matt said, leaning back against the table as he flipped the new phone open. "With a new SIM card. Untapped."

The cell phone screen glowed against Matt's bruised face, lighting it pale blue. "Oh," Matt said, laughing to himself. "Fully charged, too."

"Leave it here," Mello responded, gesturing to spot on the bed.

Matt slipped a sheet of paper in the keypad and flipped the cell phone shut, tossing it onto the bed. He walked back to his own bed after he was done, adding, "I wrote down your new number, by the way."

Mello nodded, glancing down at the phone, the paper sticking out under the red shell cover. He'd have to find a way to deal with the other phone still, but this was good enough for now.

"You still need me?" Matt asked.

Mello shook his head.

Matt ambled back over to the mini-bar, descending into a crouch. Mello watched as Matt hoisted an ice bucket from the shelf, the tin clattering against the wood. "What are you doing?"

Matt looked back, resting his elbows over his knees. "To get some ice."

"Why?"

Matt pointed to his bruises blankly as he stood up, holding onto the handle of the bucket.

"Fine," Mello allowed begrudgingly. "Be quick."

Matt walked out to the hallway. He unlocked the door and opened the hatch, leaving the room.

The door slammed shut.

Mello flipped the phone open and unfolded it with one hand, reading Matt's handwriting. The seven digits were easy enough to memorize. He sat up, leaning over to Matt's bed to grab his lighter.

He burned the memo. The corner of the piece of paper curled from the heat, the numbers charring into black. Mello let the fire burn through half of the numbers before he blew the flame out.

The scent of burnt paper hung heavy in the air as he flipped the cell phone open, staring at the empty screen.

Mello's new phone looked almost exactly like his old one. He pressed the Menu button on his keypad and opened his empty phonebook. _Create a new contact._ In the text field, Mello keyed in Hal's cell phone number and saved it under "H."

Mello pressed the green call button after he was finished, lifting it to his ear. The phone rang quietly, the dial tone thrumming. Mello leaned back on his hands as he waited for the connect.

The ringing stopped. "Hal, it's—"

Hal's voice overlapped with his on the other end. "You've reached Hal's voicemail. I'm not available right—"

Mello tsked, rolling his eyes.

"—leave a message with your phone number after the beep."

_Beep_.

"Hal," Mello started. "It's me. I had to get a new phone. The number is…"

A knock on the door interrupted him. Mello looked up, frowning. Did the idiot forget to bring his key card?

He glanced back at Matt's bed, where he'd left all of his belongings — his car keys, his smokes, his video games — but the hotel card wasn't there.

"I'll call you back," he finished, flipping his cell phone shut.

They had company.

There was another knock as Mello flipped onto his front on the bed and climbed towards the headboard. He threw the pillow aside to the floor and grabbed his Beretta from underneath the cotton, sitting up to slide back the hammer.

He yanked open the shelf of the bedside table, the force of his pull making his belongings shake. His heart was pounding.

"Front desk," a deep voice called out from outside the door. It wasn't Matt.

Mello grabbed a magazine from the shelf and slid it into the butt. He cocked the gun. The zip ties came next, slipped into his boot.

He took the sunglasses off of the surface of the table and slid them over his face. There was another knock on the door, and he whipped his head around.

"Front desk. We had a complaint from downstairs, and—"

Mello slid off the bed with the gun firmly in his hand and walked over slowly, quietly. _Knock knock_.

He reached the door and pressed himself against the wood to peer through the peephole. A man with dark hair and a suit stood on the other side, waiting.

Mello had never seen him in his life.

Mello flipped the safety of his gun as he put his hand carefully on the knob. He twisted it and pulled the door open with a quiet _creak_.


	24. Chapter 24

Mello opened the door halfway, enough to only see the man's face. He kept his Beretta behind his back.

The man who stood at the other end of the door bowed slightly. He didn't have a name tag.

"Good evening, sir," he said, looking back up. "Sorry to disturb you so late at night. There were several noise complaints about this floor."

Mello stared at him blankly, straining his ears. The only sound in the hotel room was the noise of the TV behind him. It ran so low that Mello couldn't even make out the words.

"Oh, is that so?" Mello asked, slipping his gun back into his waistband as he opened the door wider. The concierge's eyes darted, over Mello's hair and his clothes, settling on his scar.

"Yes, there was," the man responded.

Mello shook his head. "I didn't even hear it."

The concierge shook his head, smiling to himself. "Sorry to disturb you, sir," he said, bowing again. "Maybe I was mistaken."

"No worries," Mello said.

The man had strong Sicilian features. Thick eyebrows and a square jaw.

"Actually," Mello said, stopping him as he turned. "I have something I need help with."

The concierge's facade dropped, only slightly, as he looked back. His eyes widened. "Oh?"

"Yes," Mello responded, walking backwards. The concierge stepped ahead as to not let the door fall against him. He had just one foot past the golden barrier of the room.

"I've been having some issues with the internet here," Mello continued, taking off his sunglasses as he passed the TV, tossing them onto the table. He sauntered over to the desk, pushing the swivel chair out of the way in front of the bed, and crouched down to pick up Matt's cables. "Do you know how to fix it?"

The concierge stood at the door awkwardly, his body language growing unsure. "Oh—oh, I don't know," he stuttered, scratching his head. "I guess I can send a guy up to help you. Yeah, how's that?"

"I've already gotten someone to help," Mello replied, shaking his head. "They were useless."

"Well, I'm not sure, I don't know much about—"

"Look at this," Mello said, holding up two wires with his hands. "Which one is the internet cable?"

"Huh?"

"The ethernet. The LAN?" Mello tilted his head, beckoning him over. "Come here. The last guy who helped me couldn't even tell them apart."

The concierge stared at him for a second longer before he nodded, his other foot crossing the doorway. He took another step onto the carpeted floor.

The door swung shut behind him and locked.

Mello dropped the cables from his right hand and pulled out his gun, watching as the man's eyes widened in fear, whipping his head around to look at the door. Mello stood up, walking towards him.

When the man looked back, he had one thing written all over his face: _I'm screwed_.

"Nevermind," Mello said, stopping at the entryway, a few feet away from the man. "I think I've fixed it."

"Sir," the concierge said, putting up his arms. "Please don't point a gun at me, or I'll have to call secu—"

"Cut the bullshit," Mello interrupted, and pointed at the wall of the hallway. "Hands over your head."

"Sir, please—"

Mello's arm shot out to grab him by the shirt, dragging him to stand against the wall. Before the concierge could react, he raised his arms and patted him down.

Clear. He turned him around and patted him down again.

There was a gun underneath his vest, tucked in the back of his waistband.

Mello pulled the man's dress shirt free from his pants and grabbed it, ungluing it from the concierge's sticky skin. He held his Beretta to the man's head as he inspected the model.

A revolver. Full chamber.

He tossed it onto the bed. "You brought a gun to check a noise complaint?" he asked.

"Look, man," the man said, dropping whatever was left of his facade. "Let me go."

"Come on," Mello said, pushing the barrel against his tightly slicked hair. "Hands over your head. I won't hurt you."

The soldier put his arms up, linking his fingers over his head.

"Turn around."

He turned, his expression hard, his eyes glued to the scar. Mello held the gun to his forehead and nodded to the swivel chair.

"Sit."

The soldier marched into the netted seat. Mello followed close behind, gun aimed.

Mello rounded the back of the chair as the man sat, grabbing the zipties from his boot. He gripped the man's arms, dropping his gun.

The man yelped as Mello pulled his wrists back, pushing the tight cuffs up from his dress shirt and looping the ziptie around his gold watch.

He tightened it. The plastic cut through his wrists, bleeding them white.

"Ow," the mole groaned. "What the F, dude?"

Mello grabbed the gun from off the carpet and stood up, whirling the seat around to face him.

Sweat stained the soldier's forehead, glittering in the lamp's light. His chest was expanding and deflating underneath his tight shirt. Breathing heavily, his mouth held into a snarl.

Up close, the soldier looked no older than twenty.

"Who sent you?" Mello asked, taking a step back.

"No one."

Mello pointed his gun at his head. "Who sent you?" he repeated.

"_No one_."

"I'll ask one more fucking time," Mello said, chilling his voice harshly, flipping the safety of the gun down. The boy's annoyance faded into fear.

Mello pressed the barrel between his eyes, pushing up the folds of skin of his sweaty face.

He leaned close. Close enough to smell the boy's cheap cologne. Dug the barrel into skin, hard enough to hit bone.

"Who." The soldier squeezed his eyes shut.

"Sent." Held his breath.

"You?"

"Baptist," the mole breathed. "Baptist. Leon Baptist."

Mello slid the gun across the boy's skin, pushing his head aside as he pulled away. He flipped the safety back on, taking a few steps back as he stared at him.

He knew a Leon by another name. Too young and too smart to be in the _casa nostra_ back when Mello was in New York City.

He must have taken over after his godfather's death.

"What'd they send you up for?" Mello asked, wiping the sweat off his gun on his shirt.

"They wanted me to see if you were here," the boy answered, opening his eyes again. A small circle where his gun had pressed was imprinted on his forehead. "To find your room."

"Where are they?"

The boy gulped, looking down at his shoes.

"Downstairs?"

He nodded roughly.

"Waiting for you?"

Another nod.

"How'd they—"

The door behind them opened.

Mello whipped around. Matt was standing there at the entrance, a bucket of ice clanging against the wooden door as it slammed shut behind him.

Matt stared for a second, the sight sinking in. Then he stomped down the entryway, his eyebrows pulling into a frown.

"What the fuck?" Matt demanded. "What the fuck's going on?"

Mello opened his mouth to answer when Matt's eyes widened at the hostage. "Danny?"

Mello turned back to see the soldier staring at Matt openly, his wide eyes dancing in shock and fear. Back at Matt, who had dropped the bucket of ice in the hallway, pacing over.

"What?" His eyes darted to Mello. "What's going on?"

Mello narrowed his eyes. "You know him?"

"I don't know him," Matt answered quickly. "He brought me to the phonebooth to call you today, that's all."

"Oh, Jesus fucking Christ."

Chinatown.

Little Italy.

Matt's eyebrows shot up in horror as he realized his mistake, his eyes darting back and forth between Danny and Mello.

Mello glared at him, gnashing his teeth against his words. "Pack your shit."

"Okay," Matt replied quickly, slipping away out of sight.

Fucking Matt. They had to get out of here.

He'd deal with this Danny later.

Mello scanned the hotel room. Matt was grabbing his wires, shoving them into the duffel bag with breakneck speed. They hadn't packed much on the way over, which meant easy departure.

Out in five minutes. Baptist's men would be none the wiser.

They had to dump the car when they were safe, find a new ride, and keep driving. As far as they could until Hal reestablished contact so that he knew where to go next.

Fuck. His head was starting to pound. The pills were wearing off.

Matt yanked open the bedside drawer, mindlessly shoving things into the bursting duffel bag. Mello could escape without being picked up on CCTV. He had his coat and his sunglasses. But Matt.

Danny knew what he looked like. Baptist's men probably had a description.

He'd only packed his fucking vest.

"Matt."

Matt's head shot up. Danny looked over. Mello jerked his chin, gesturing to the soldier with his gun.

"Strip him."

Matt made a face. "What?"

Mello's head pulsed. "Strip him."

"_No_," Matt responded, scandalized.

They had no fucking time to play games. Mello shook his head and bent over to lift the hem of his pants, grabbing a dagger from his sheath.

He stormed over and hooked the blade underneath the plastic, yanking. The zipties broke free, and Danny lurched ahead.

Mello was faster. He pressed the gun against Danny's temple again before he could escape, clicking the safety off.

Danny stopped, panting.

Mello threw the knife down onto the carpet and twirled the chair around until Danny was face-to-face with him again. The soldier swallowed, staring up into Mello's face.

"You heard me," Mello said, shoving the swivel chair back.

It crashed into the TV table, rattling the TV set. Danny fell to the ground, landing on his hands and knees.

Matt was staring at them, his jaw hanging, his hands fisting the handles of his duffel bag. "What the fuck?" he muttered.

"Are you done packing?" Mello snapped.

Matt looked away, pursing his lips. Mello turned back to Danny, his gun still trained on his face. He was unbuttoning his vest in haste, his fingers fumbling.

He flung the vest off, his fingers working to unbutton his shirt. He peeled it off and tossed it into the floor.

His hands were shaking as he looked up at Mello, his eyes wide.

Mello pointed the gun down. "Pants."

Danny's eyes bugged out of his sockets. He looked away.

He unbuttoned his slacks. Unzipped them and dropped them onto the floor, kicking them away.

Mello nodded when he stood in nothing but his undershirt and underpants, his hands folded over his groin.

"Hands over your head," Mello commanded. Danny put them up slowly, his embarrassment creeping over his face as he looked to his shoes.

Mello glanced back at Matt, zipping up the bag. "Are you done packing?"

Matt looked up, trying to hide his shock. "Uh, yeah."

"Take his clothes and change into them," Mello said.

"What?"

"Do it now."

Matt scrambled over to pick up the limp pieces of clothing all over the carpet, hugging them to his chest. He looked around the room before scuttling off into the bathroom.

With Matt changed, he could go down first. CCTV and Baptist would think he was the concierge. He could get the car and wait by the door.

That would give Mello a few more minutes.

Matt would have to drive them to safety in his car. Mello wasn't sure if he could trust him with his life.

He'd done it once, and he wasn't eager to do it again.

"Are we done here?" the soldier asked suddenly.

Mello looked at him.

"You can let me go now," he said, shrugging his muscular shoulders. "Like, you don't need me anymore."

Mello looked at him.

"I got a dog, you know?" He smiled, feigning coolness. "So just let me go now. I won't say nothin'."

"Sure," Mello said. He flipped down the safety of the gun and shot him.

The boy collapsed into a heap against Matt's bed face-down, his white undershirt colored red. Blood flecked the TV screen. Some on the wall, dripping down the wallpaper.

The bathroom door burst open. Matt's shirt was buttoned up messily and his pants were pulled halfway up to his thighs. "What the fuck happened?" he yelled.

His fingers freed his underwear from the fly and zipped the slacks up. Matt's eyes flickered over the dead body on the carpet.

His mouth fell open. "Dude, you fucking shot him?!" Matt shouted, staring. "What the fuck?"

They had less than five minutes now that the gun had gone off. No more time.

"Take off your goggles and grab one of your bags," Mello responded. "Go."

Matt blinked and shook his head, swearing under his breath. He tore the goggles off of his face and pushed past Mello into the bedroom, running to get his things.

His boots left wet marks over the carpet, darkening the red to maroon. Mello looked down.

The blood had pooled around his feet, seeping into the carpet. Mello lifted his shoes one by one, looking at his soles.

Drying blood caked the ridges.

Matt reappeared with the duffel bag in tow. Fully dressed. The shock had left his expression now.

He was ready.

"Go downstairs and take the car," Mello commanded, shoving his gun into his back. "Meet me at the fire exit in Stairwell C in four minutes. Quick."

Matt paced out the front door without another word, slamming the door behind him. Mello took a step over the body and looked around the room.

No time to wipe for fingerprints. It was Matt's fault for not wearing gloves.

Mello pulled the drawer out of the bedside table, turning it upside down. The contents scattered over the bedspread. That was all he had.

He unzipped Matt's duffel bag and shoved all of it in, tossing the goggles in, too, as he moved through the hotel room.

He grabbed everything else. Matt's clothes, his sunglasses, his Silvadene, his laptop.

He popped the pill bottle open and swallowed a few pills dry, glancing over at the time. Two minutes had passed.

He had to leave now.

Mello shoved the pills into the bag and dropped it at the entrance as he tore open the closet doors, shrugging on his coat. He flipped up the hood and whisked the bag with him, opening the door.

Nobody was outside.

He paced down the hallway, pushing open the bar to the fire escape. The door groaned shut behind him as he barrelled down the staircase, jumping down the steps.

Seventy-two seconds. He made it to the ground floor. The CCTV footage couldn't capture him with his hood up. Nobody had followed him down.

He slammed his shoulder against the emergency exit door, opening it into the night air. The fire alarm screamed.

The emergency exit was at the side of the hotel. Mello spotted Matt's car idling across the street, waiting for him, the headlights shining bright in the night.

Mello stopped.

There was another car parked in the distance further along the street. Mello couldn't see the make clearly, but he could see enough.

Black and sleek. It was a mob car.

Mello didn't let it out of his sight as he crossed the street. It didn't move, still idle.

He opened the passenger door, throwing Matt's duffel bag onto the mat. Matt looked over, his face tense, a lit cigarette clenched between his teeth.

"Drive," Mello barked.

"What the fuck happened?"

"No time," Mello answered, peering back. The mob car's headlights flashed on, illuminating the foliage ahead of it. "Shit. Go."

Matt glanced over at him in annoyance but listened, shifting gears to ease up the road. Mello sat up, pulling his body up to take the gun from his back.

He flipped the safety trigger off, rolling down Matt's window in a rush. The car was pulling away from its parking spot, trailing after them.

"Get on a main road," Mello said.

"I don't fucking know my way around here," Matt responded irritably, turning on his blinker.

Mello squinted at the black car. The passenger window rolled down slowly.

Mello ducked. A bullet sailed through the rear window, cracking the glass.

"Jesus!" Matt exclaimed, looking back. "What the fuck was that?"

Mello gripped Matt's headrest, glaring out the bullethole as he popped back up. "Do you get it now?"

Matt turned, shifting gears. Mello held onto the seat tighter, watching as the car followed them past the turn.

They emerged on the main road.

Matt pressed down on the gas pedal and accelerated, steering with his elbow as he unbuttoned his cuffs.

The roads were clear at this time of night. They were pushing the speed limit without anybody noticing them.

The black car sped, catching up to them. The headlights were bright and blinding.

Suddenly, another black car turned a corner. Mello turned around, staring down at his Beretta.

"Who are they?" Matt asked, cutting between cars, threading through them with ease.

"Just keep driving."

Matt readjusted the rearview mirror, throttling the gear as they accelerated even faster.

The mob cars kept up.

Mello looked up at the open road ahead of them. Matt sped through a red light, snarling around his cigarette. The cars around them honked.

There. A small break in the concrete median ahead of them. They could lose the tails that way.

"Do a U-turn up there," Mello said, pointing over.

Matt nodded, cutting through the lanes to inch up to the median. It was right ahead of them when Matt jerked the gear back and twisted the wheel at full tilt, tires squealing.

Gravity slammed Mello against the door, his shoulder hard against the glass.

The car vibrated as they sped over the bumps of the torn road. Mello pushed back and leaned out the window, the glass sharp against his ribcage, and pointed his gun.

The first car was close to them, on the other side of the median. The passenger hung over the top of the car with a shotgun.

The bullets rang loud against the metal of the cargo bed. Matt squeezed the wheel, mumbling, "Shit."

Mello aimed with both hands around his gun. They were pulling away.

Mello shot. Front tire.

He shot again.

Back tire.

The car swerved, smoke bursting. It missed the opening in the median and skirted along the concrete, the tires sparking in the darkness of night.

Mello watched as the car flew out into the intersection and crashed into the traffic light, and Matt whooped.

The second car followed them through the U-turn, closing the distance.

"Fuck," Mello said, pulling back into the car.

It was too far. He only had three mags. He had to make them last.

Another shot rang through the metal of their car, vibrating the seats. Matt swerved before Mello could react, merging into the narrow bike lane. Their tires dragged against the side of the road, shaking the seats as they soared past the traffic beside them.

The mob car followed, easing into the tight space.

Matt looked into the rearview mirror, tsking to himself.

An underpass was approaching. It led to the highway, which meant less traffic. More room to run.

"Head to the FDR," Mello said, looking down to reload. "As fast as you can."

Matt nodded. "Got it."

Matt swerved again, cutting through into the next lane. Mello slammed the mag into the handle, looking back up as the streetlights faded to a bright, fluorescent white.

The wind stopped whipping through the windows. A hush fell over the car.

They were in the tunnel.

Matt threaded between the traffic, his speed constant. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, his neck glinting in the white lights.

They were fast, but not too fast. Matt pushed his sleeves up over his elbows, his knuckles white over the steering wheel. He drove like he was playing a video game on the easiest setting.

No fear at all.

The tunnel exit was up ahead. The highway opened up to two lanes, wider than the tunnel. There weren't any cars in front of them for another long while, and Matt stepped on the gas pedal, accelerating.

They were out of the tunnel in a flash. The wind started whipping through the windows again and Matt's hair was dancing. He lit another cigarette with the car lighter, releasing a plume of smoke into the car.

They pulled next to a host of transport trucks and sixteen-wheelers. Matt cleared a path between them, the speedometer pushing 120 mph, the throttle vibrating as the car neared its maximum speed.

Mello glanced at the rearview mirror. The mob cars were approaching again, getting closer and closer.

Speed wasn't going to beat them.

Mello cocked his gun, yelling over the wind. "Where's your gun?"

"My vest pocket," Matt yelled back.

Mello shoved his hand into Matt's suit vest, Matt's heat radiating from his torso even past two layers of fabric. Mello ran his tongue along his teeth as he spun the gun around in his fingers, grabbing the butt tight.

Matt swerved into the divider, gunning it down the line. They were hitting 125 mph, gaining speed.

Mello held both guns as he watched as the mob car grew closer and closer.

Now.

Mello twisted his body out the window. His hair whipped around his head in the bursting wind as he held out both his arms and shot.

The mob car's windshield shattered. Bullets took out the headlights and damaged the hood. He peppered the car until he ran out of ammo, and turned around.

He ducked back into the car, running his fingers through his hair and he reloaded again. Last two mags.

Matt's car slowed, turning onto a ramp, and Mello looked up. A green street sign sailed past them: _Brooklyn Bridge. Exit Only_.

Mello scowled. "Are you fucking crazy?"

The mafia had backup in Brooklyn. If Matt got on the bridge, there would be no way out.

"Trust me," Matt shouted, his eyes glittering on the road. His voice was sharp, certain.

Mello glowered. He had no other choice.

The Brooklyn Bridge loomed beside them, the on-ramp speeding away from its iron supports to turn and merge with the lanes running through its center. The heavy bricks and high arches of the bridge towered over the car.

Matt squeezed along the median, accelerating until they were sandwiched between two large, colorful tour busses. The tour busses moved slowly, adhering to the speed limit.

Through the window, Mello saw sleeping faces, their heads leaning against the window. Further down, somebody stared down at them, awake and frowning.

Matt pushed harder. The mob car was gaining on them again, close behind one of the tour busses. The entrance to the bridge was getting closer up ahead.

The mob car swerved to the leftmost lane, out of sight.

Matt was speeding, overtaking the tour bus. They passed the driver, oblivious to the car race.

Matt kept going, pushing back up to 100.

They passed the tour bus, almost rounding the corner to the foot of the bridge. The arches of Brooklyn Bridge were ahead, coming closer.

Mello saw the mob car again, emerging on the other side of the tour bus, the passenger window rolling down.

The passenger climbed out, shotgun pointed.

_Bang_.

The bullet missed, hitting the hood of the car. Mello gripped his gun tight, pulling himself up to the window.

Matt's hand shot out from the gear shift and held Mello's arm back before he made it out. Another bullet rippled over the metal, this time in the driver door.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Mello roared.

"Don't," Matt responded, pulling him back. Matt merged into the next lane, drifting away from the mob car.

Matt was slowing down, the speedometer falling to 60.

"What are you—"

Matt didn't answer. He moved his hand back onto the gear shift, his face focused. The speed continued to fall.

50.

The mob car was getting closer, merging into the lane next to them, slowing down to match them. They were taking aim. They were going to shoot.

Matt wasn't going to make it out alive.

40.

The foot of the bridge approached in front of them, cars easing along into the traffic jam ahead. The wires danced above them like open arms.

Mello was fucked.

30.

"Hold tight," Matt said gruffly, and turned his head back, lounging his arm over the back of the seat. He jerked the gear shift.

Suddenly, the car flew backwards.

Mello flew into the dash, almost hitting his head against the windshield. They were reversing down a ramp. Mello held tight onto the dash, looking up.

The tour bus had blocked the ramp they left off of. There was no way for the mob car to follow them with it in the way.

Matt's head was turned, manoeuvring them backwards. The speedometer stuttered.

50... 60... 70...

80.

They landed on the back wheel, the car jerking as it skidded onto the main road. Cars slowed and honked as Matt shifted gears again, gripping the wheel tight.

Their tires squealed as Matt drifted. They flew through a red light ahead to another barrage of honks and swears.

Mello's heart was hammering. He couldn't believe it.

They slipped into a smaller lane across from the ramp, and Matt followed the small, empty street.

Mello pushed himself back upright, breathing hard. The street led them to a small underpass directly underneath the Brooklyn Bridge. _Closed for Construction_.

Matt ignored the sign and headed into the site, turning into a parking lot of junked cars and debris. There was nobody else there. Matt looked back again and shifted gears, slowing to a crawl as he pulled in beside a transport truck, its white trailer scrawled over with graffiti.

The area bordered the East River, closed to the public.

Matt braked.

The car jerked to a halt. No car behind them.

Mello's heart was pounding.

The two of them sat silently as the engine ran idly, their headlights shining in the dark underpass. The sound of distant traffic rang through the night. Police sirens were a ways away.

Mello's ears were ringing with a high pitched scream as the adrenaline settled in his veins.

They did it. They made it out alive.

Matt turned off the engine, grabbing a cigarette from his pocket, and lit it with his car lighter. He leaned back onto his seat, his chest rising and falling.

He exhaled a cloud of smoke, unbuttoning his vest with his other hand and shrugging it off into the seat. It lay there limply by his waist.

Mello glanced to the shattered rear window.

They were safe.

They sat in silence, willing their breaths slower. Matt had finished his cigarette, lounging there on the seat like he was going to fall asleep.

Mello decocked his guns, tossing Matt's gun in his lap, and rolled up the windows. Mello replaced his own Beretta into his waistband, one mag left over in his pocket.

It was over. It was over.

Matt saved his life.

"Come on," Mello said, sitting up. "Let's go. We have to ditch the car."

"No," Matt responded firmly, turning to look at him, his hair messy over his eyes. "I'm not dumping her, man."

"They'll find—"

"I'll change the plates," Matt answered, shaking his head. "I am not torching this fucking car."

Mello shook his head, looking away.

The sound of the car latch unlocking alerted him. Mello looked back to Matt leaving the door.

The car dipped as Matt slammed it shut, ambling into the construction site in nothing but his white button-down and his black slacks.

He kept walking, his figure growing smaller and smaller. Down to the East River, a cloud of smoke following him as he hopped over the median and disappeared from sight.

Mello narrowed his eyes, getting out of the car and following. He stormed over to the riverside until he saw Matt again.

He was pissing.

Standing beside the river on a strip of sand by the riverside. Mello heard him zip his fly up before he lit another cigarette, his hair so dark in the night it looked black.

Mello crawled over the median, jumping off onto the sand. His shoes sank with every step he took towards Matt until they were side by side.

They stared at nothing but the water, rippling quietly in the cool night. Alone. Just the two of them for miles in all directions.

On the Brooklyn Bridge above them, sirens wailed. The cars were heavy and loud as they drove over the underpass, rocking against the brick.

Minutes tolled. Mello could feel his blood thrumming still. His headache gone.

The thrill of the chase cold in his bones.

Matt looked over, his hair out of his eyes, the reflection of the river flickering over his face. Their eye contact felt heavy and harsh without Matt's goggles.

"So," Matt said first. "You wanna tell me what's going on?"

Mello swallowed, shifting his weight over the sand. "What do you want to know?"

"Who the fuck were those guys?"

Mello looked away. Lights of all colors littered the island of Brooklyn across the water. Sharp and jagged buildings faced them on the other end.

Matt was still watching him from his peripheral vision. Blurry from out of the corner of Mello's damaged eye.

"I used to be in the mafia here," Mello answered finally, dropping his gaze onto the sand.

"Oh."

"I left for LA a year ago. The mob called a hit on me, for half a million dollars."

"Oh."

"So I can't move around." Mello looked up, watching Matt's face for a reaction.

His eyes were wide but empty. He stared at him like he didn't know what to say.

"Jesus," Matt mumbled finally, breaking their gaze. His cigarette burnt down between his fingers, the ash scattering into the wind limply. "You must have pissed a lot of people off."

Mello shrugged in response. "Probably."

Matt snorted suddenly. He looked away, shaking his head to himself as he raised the cigarette to his lips.

"Fuck," he muttered quietly, running a hand through his mussed hair.

Mello frowned. "What?"

Matt looked back, his eyes warm now. Warm and sweet.

"You're really fucked up," Matt said softly, in a way that sounded like it was a joke they shared, a smile playing over his bruised lips. "But I guess… I knew you'd be like this."

Mello was speechless.

It hurt to breathe, like Mello's chest had been crushed. It came on like an old memory. A feeling he thought he'd lost a long time ago.

Matt was staring at him, waiting for a response. Mello had to say something.

Mello swallowed, running a hand through his hair to disperse his thoughts. "Where'd you learn to drive like that?" he asked, nonchalant.

"In Las Vegas," Matt answered. "I used to do a lot of street racing. I did some in Phoenix too. Nothing big, just, like… Saturday night stuff for a few extra bucks."

Mello tilted his head. "Is that why you have your Camaro?"

"Yeah, I bought that with my Wammy's severance money. First check." Matt chuckled to himself, shaking his head at the memory. "The thing was worth piss before I fixed her back up. I've been driving her since."

"Did you fix a lot of cars?"

"It used to be a hobby of mine," Matt answered, squinting out into the river as he exhaled smoke from his nostrils. "Not that I really do it anymore."

The wind picked up, crying as it blew through Matt's hair. The night was quiet and cool. Matt's white dress shirt glowed in the moon, almost too bright to look at directly. His expression warm and defenceless, his freckles light, the color of earth in the dark night.

He was beautiful.

"That was fun, though," Matt said softly, cutting through the silence of the night. "Glad we didn't die."

"Well," Mello said.

Matt looked back at him, his dark eyes shining. Waiting.

"You should be my getaway driver from now on," Mello finished, daring to smile.

Matt laughed. "No, please," he responded, shaking his head. "Let's hope this never happens again."


	25. Chapter 25

Matt was fucking exhausted. It was morning and they'd been circling around New York for hours, first in Manhattan and then all the way east, through Flushing and past Queens, further and further along the interstate until they hit Jericho.

A sleepy little rich suburban town. Population: 13,000.

Matt didn't care. He hadn't slept all night. He was dry as a virgin on prom night, wading in the shores of a really bad dream, getting caught in riots and evading mafiosi with his bullet-ridden El Camino.

He was sure he was going to wake up any second now, passed out in a puddle of his drool in his Koreatown apartment back in LA.

God, if only.

Mello was waiting for a phone call that never came, sleeping in the passenger seat. The sun was shining over the cloudy blue skies and they were crawling along a nice little Jericho neighborhood with picket fences and manicured lawns.

Matt's back was killing him. His leg was going to spazz out from pressing the gas pedal all night.

They were low on gas. Matt was low on cigarettes. Actually, Matt was low on everything humanly possible. His stomach growled in the quiet of the car.

Fuck, he was hungry.

The radio played quietly as Matt turned another corner into another identical neighborhood. Mello didn't let him listen to the music stations. It was all news, day in, day out.

"You have to make sure the cops aren't looking for us," he was bitching, back when the dawn was still over the sky. "If they get a suspect description, we're hiding in New Jersey."

Well, nothing too bad. Just this, for the fourth time in the morning: _There was a homicide in the New York Centurion Hotel Downtown. Police are still searching for one suspect. Around 5'7"-5'9" in height— _

Yeah, whatever. Mello never left the car, never left the room, never left anywhere. He was fine.

The mafiosi were probably sleeping in their rooms in Brooklyn, safe and sound. Only Danny was lying at the foot of Matt's bed, bled out in his underwear.

Matt shook his head. Cleared his thoughts. He didn't want to think about that.

He eased into a crawl, parking on the side of the neighborhood and shifted gears.

The car stopped. Matt sighed, leaning his head back on his headrest, stretching his shoulders, popping his spine with a nice, loud crack. He fumbled with his pack o'cigs, still tucked in his pockets, and looked miserably at it.

One stick stood in its lonesome behind the aluminum foil, rolling around sadly.

There was a convenience store just down the block from here. Matt could grab cigarettes there. He'd left Mello alone in a car before, back in LA, and nobody had been any the wiser.

And there was a Chinese restaurant just across the street, tucked beside the rich houses. TAKE-OUT AVAILABLE.

Matt could scarf down about three chow meins right now. Maybe he could even shoot up in the bathroom if Mello stayed asleep.

Matt turned off the engine. The silence in the car woke Mello up.

Matt glared. Fuck. No bueno.

Mello shifted from his blanket of his red coat, inhaling sharply in the dead of morning. "Where are we?" he asked, his voice soft.

"Jericho," Matt answered roughly. "I'm starving. I'm gonna get some food."

"Wait," Mello said, clearing his throat as he sat up. He wiped his eyes with his leather gloves, and then palmed his cell phone from his pocket, flashing the subscreen. "Any calls?"

"Nope."

Mello swore under his breath, and Matt sighed, looking back out the window at the Chinese restaurant, a kid skipping school skateboarding past.

"Look." Matt looked back, cracking his neck. "I'm gonna get some takeout. We can eat in here if it bothers you."

Mello nodded, sitting up and grabbing his gun from his waistband. He cocked it, blinking a few more times to stay awake.

"You want coffee?"

"Yeah," Mello answered. "Get me some food, too."

Matt rolled his eyes, opening the car door and stepping out into the cool morning air.

The sun shone into his eyeballs. He was naked without his goggles, but he couldn't be assed to find them through the duffel bags. His boots were heavy on his feet as he tried to walk over the asphalt, and he wondered why he didn't come prepared with a pair of slippers.

He limped over to the restaurant across the street, lipping his last cig from the pack.

* * *

It'd been thirty goddamned minutes, and he'd left his PSP in the car. Matt wasn't usually impatient, but goddamnit, was there nobody fucking working in this place?

He could have gotten high already. He stood up from the seats and rang the bell at the cashier, staring at the empty black eyes of a lucky cat as it waved at him with its paw. The girl working there popped up from the back of the kitchen again, her ponytail swishing over her head as she stared at him annoyedly. "What?"

"I've been waiting for half an hour now," Matt bitched.

"Ten minutes," she answered.

"You said that twenty minutes ago," he grumbled, peering into the empty kitchen. "Did you even start making the food?"

"It's coming."

If Matt hadn't already paid, he would have just left. But he was hungry and he craved chow mein and goddamnit, if he couldn't get high, then at the least he was going to get his fucking food.

"Is it gonna be faster if I dine in?" Matt asked.

She sighed, leaning back and shouting something in Chinese into the kitchen. A gruff man answered, and she turned around, staring at him. "Dine-in is five minutes."

Matt rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "Okay," he grumbled, taking a step back. "I'll be back. I'm doing dine-in."

The girl ducked back into her corner, out of sight from the cashier. Matt turned around and left, listening to the little tune that played over the speakers as he opened the door.

He walked back out of the restaurant to the car. Mello was sitting there, his sunglasses on, staring at him as he came back cautiously.

Matt walked to the car, gesturing for Mello to roll down the window. Mello leaned over to his side and opened it.

"They don't do take out," Matt called out.

"What?" Mello made a face. "It says right there on the fucking sign."

"I don't know." Matt reached the car. "I've been waiting for half an hour and I'm going to kill myself if I don't get food soon. So let's go."

Mello grit his teeth, sighing in a way that sounded like a hissing snake. He glanced around him cautiously, and then back at the restaurant, his hand still tight over his gun.

"Fine," he said. "Ten minutes."

Matt sighed, jerking his head. "Yeah, yeah. Let's go, c'mon."

They walked back to the Chinese restaurant with their duffel bags in tow, Mello's hood firm over his head even though the weather was in the high 50's. They opened the door again, the chime beeping a bing-bong again as they walked in.

Mello stayed behind, grabbing a newspaper from the stand. The girl stood up to welcome them, but stopped when she saw Matt and jerked her head to a table. "Five minutes."

"Yeah, okay," Matt mumbled, moving through to the few tables tucked in the corner of the joint. He pulled out a chair with its back to the door with a loud scrape.

Mello followed, sitting diagonal from him. Their duffel bags lay beside them on the chairs like their plus two's, quiet and heavy.

Mello pulled out his newspaper, rustling the sheets of paper and spreading it out over his face. Stealthy. Matt looked up at the TV, playing the news above Mello's head from the corner of the restaurant.

NBC. New York was already over the homicide — it just showed up as a small text that scrolled by. The lady onscreen was doing a talkshow with some guy who looked famous, talking about dog-sitting.

The girl came by with two waters and slithered back to her corner. Matt sighed, cracking his neck again, and leaned his face against his cheek, looking away from the TV screen to the red altar in front of the EMPLOYEE ONLY entrance.

The bearded god of fortune smiled back at him, staring at him with rosy cheeks. _I know what you did last night_.

Matt closed his eyes and opened them again. The bearded god of fortune was smiling at him knowingly.

Matt shook his head. He was starting to go nuts without sleep.

He jolted back awake from a nap he didn't know he was taking as their food sailed in front of them, steaming and looking as oily as he felt shitty. The girl sauntered away, leaving the check between them, scribbled with illegible numbers, and Matt looked up at the clock.

Five minutes on the dot.

"Take-out Available my ass," Matt grumbled, grabbing the wooden chopsticks from the table and snapping them off.

He dug in. Chow mein for days.

They were ass-deep in food, eating to themselves quietly. The only sound in the restaurant was James Blunt, playing over the speakers quietly.

_You're beautiful, it's true..._

Yeah, this chow mein was the most beautiful damned plate of noodles Matt had ever had.

Mello's phone rang from the table.

Matt looked over, his face stuffed. Mello put down his chopsticks, balancing them over his bowl of soup, and eyed the phone.

It buzzed, blinking and ringing loudly in the tiny resto.

Mello flipped it open, giving Matt a look over his sunglasses as he did. "Hello?"

"Mello, it's Hal," the other end said. The restaurant was so quiet that Matt could hear their conversation almost perfectly. "I got your message. Where are you?"

"Jericho," Mello answered, turning away and crossing his legs.

"We're in another building in Manhattan right now," the woman's voice said. "I can't tell you where just yet. You'll have to stay put."

"Okay," Mello said coolly. "Keep me updated."

He flipped the phone shut.

Mello set the phone back onto the table, turning back to face Matt. The song ended, and the radio announcer started talking again.

Matt raised his eyebrows, slurping the noodles and setting his chopsticks down self-consciously, like it was rude to do anything else.

"We have to find a new place to crash," Mello said when Matt swallowed.

Matt nodded.

"Five minutes," Mello said, standing up, his chair scraping over the checkered tiles. "I'll wait in the car."

He grabbed his phone off the table, leaving the newspaper behind. His soup looked barely touched.

The door bing-bonged, and Matt was alone.

Matt shook his head, shovelling the rest of the noodles into his mouth like a starving zombie. As always, Mello had left him to foot the bill. Such was life as a paypig.

Matt looked up to the TV idly as the announcer said, "It's a beautiful, sunny day in New York City today." The screen panned to a shot of the towering, glistening hotel building, shining in the light of the new day.

Matt paid the bill, and left for the bathroom. Just a little hit wouldn't hurt.

* * *

They pulled up to a shady little motel at the corner of the Jericho Turnpike, the outer walls painted a garish orangey-pink. Matt stopped the car at a parking spot, joining only a few other cars in the whole lot, and got out with one of the duffel bags.

He left the remainder of his system and Mello behind, probably to polish his gun and wait for someone to shoot at him again.

Matt did, however, manage to get Mello to give him $100 upfront for the room. Mello grumbled, but handed over Benjamin Franklin with minimal dispute.

Matt strolled proudly towards the entrance, the flag waving above the motel sign. God bless America. He pulled the tinted door and stepped into the cool, air-conditioned lobby, his goggles tinting everything with the familiar glow of orange once more.

A brown-haired girl sat at the front desk at the end of the room, chewing gum, her chair turned to Gossip Girl on TV. Matt glanced at the concession stand as he ambled up to the desk, his hands in his pockets.

"Hi," he said. She looked up, standing up from the chair. "Can I get a room?"

"How many nights?" she asked, her voice shrill.

Matt squinted. "Uh… not sure."

"Okay, no prob. Our daily rates start at 90 a night," she said. "You can call down and extend if you want."

Matt nodded, slipping the hundred onto the counter easily. "You got a room with two beds?" he asked.

She looked back, leafing through her booking binder. "Uh… oh yeah," she said, popping her gum as she pointed a chipped red nail to a room. "We got some."

"Yeah, let's do that then. Get me one on the second floor," he added.

More time for Mello to prepare for an ambush. Matt was a good accomplice.

He pocketed his change and the key to room 201, nodding his thanks. She waved at him as she sank back into her chair in front of the TV, and Matt walked back to the door and pushed it open, walking out into the sun.

Mello told him to go in first to check the place out and make sure it was clean, so Matt walked past his El Camino towards a sign that pointed to the 200's. He walked up the stairs to the room at the corner of the building and stopped at the door.

Room 201. The plaque was scratched, yellowing with age.

Matt opened the lock, half-expecting for someone to be sitting on the bed with a captive bolt gun, blowing him back onto the street and shredding his organs. He opened the door, shining the light into a crack on the maroon carpet.

The room was empty. Cracked wallpaper and stains, but clean enough.

Matt sighed, shaking his head. He was losing his fucking mind. He kept having these thoughts pop up when he wanted them least.

He needed sleep. That was the answer.

The garishly patterned blankets looked inviting as long as he didn't think about what and who had been on there before his check-in. There was a dank, musty smell that lingered in the air, too, but Matt didn't want to investigate.

Matt closed the door and locked it behind him, throwing his duffel bag onto the bed where it sunk down comfortably into the cotton sheets. He cracked his shoulder, massaging it as he breezed past the bedroom to check the bathroom, turning on the lightswitch.

The fan whirred on, illuminating the tiny bathroom with cold light. The bathroom was empty and clean, if not claustrophobic. No complaints here.

Matt switched the light back off. He walked over and sat himself down onto his bed, sinking down into the cotton and almost falling off.

What the fuck?

He looked back, frowning. The mattress was bigger than the bedframe, the corner drooping where Matt had sat down.

Jesus Christ, they were staying in this shithole for God knew how long. Mello was going to be breathing down his neck more than ever before because, and he quoted, "they know who you are too."

Matt was locked in. Mello was locked in.

If Matt wanted another shot, it was now or he was forever holding his peace.

Matt shook his head to himself, readjusting so that he wasn't falling off the bed. He'd stocked up enough for another month in Brooklyn yesterday, and he would fucking love to just nod the fuck out right now, but he'd just shot up an hour ago. Any more was pure gluttony.

Besides, he was so fucking exhausted that one more hit could knock him out until the next morning.

Mello was going to find him, blow through the door and shoot him in the head.

Just like he had with Danny. Face down and bloody.

Matt shook his head, hitting his forehead to clear his thoughts.

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

He'll scan the place and leave. The faster he finished, the faster he could conk the fuck out.

Matt pushed himself off the lopsided mattress, unzipping his duffel bag. He pulled out his clothes, tossing them onto his bed with a grimace, and then peeled through his systems to find Mello's scanner.

Mello just told him to focus on the vents and the decorations, and to disassemble the phone for bugs or taps. Matt thought it was all terribly over-the-top, but fuck, he wasn't going to ask any questions anymore.

Matt turned on the scanner and hovered it over the ugly wall painting of New York hanging over their beds. No hits. The crappy little lamp shaped like a tulip. The too-small bedframe. The old TV set straight out of the 80s, tucked inside of a huge shelf.

The scanner buzzed quietly, waiting. No hits.

Nothing to worry about.

Matt stomped over to Mello's bed with his boots on, sliding the scanner around the vent expelling lukewarm stinky air. He went into the bathroom, staring at the glass shower door. He tried the shower head, placed too high up on the ceiling to be comfortable. He went outside, to the bolted door, the stinky air conditioning, the smoke alarm that was flashing its _Battery Low_ signal.

Nothing.

He went out and then did another circle around the room, stopping at the door at the blinds, the rods, the standing lamp.

Clean as the Virgin Mary.

Matt turned off the scanner and tossed it back onto the bed, rummaging through the bag for his toolbox. It was the redux version, small and only carrying the essentials.

He sat at the head of his bed carefully, unplugged the landline, and started to take it apart.

There was nothing in the receivers. Nothing in the speakers. Nothing in the buttons, nothing in the back.

Safe like condoms.

He left the phone dismantled on the bedside table and his shit strewn all over his bed as he walked back out of the hotel room, locking the door behind him. He walked down the stairs to his car, the blue chrome sparkling in the setting sun.

The metal was ridden with bulletholes over the length of the hood, lodged in the cargo back and the back window. Yes, very inconspicuous. Matt needed to do something about that sooner or later.

Later rather than sooner. Matt needed his beauty sleep.

The sun was harsh against the pink walls of the motel, turning them bright orange. Matt circled the car and unlocked it on his end, bending down to look at Mello, who was sitting there with his gun in his hands like he was ready to kill anything and anybody.

"We're clear," Matt said, handing him the key. Mello took it, sliding into the driver's seat. "Come on. Let's go. I wanna go to bed."

Mello looked down at the key, getting out of the driver's side, and slammed the door shut. Matt locked the car as Mello walked away, his sunglasses on, sauntering with his glowing red jacket up the staircase to Room 201.

* * *

Matt woke up. The sky outside was dark, sapphire blue, and the bed underneath him was soft and cozy, smelling like linen and cotton and fried rice.

He rolled over, tossing under the sheets, and saw Mello across from him, sitting on the nicer bed.

Mello had changed. He was wearing a long-sleeved black shirt, eating a bar of chocolate as he stared at his laptop screen, set over his crossed legs.

Matt closed his eyes again. Nah, he didn't want to wake up yet.

He'd been dreaming about driving. He was in the desert, his windows rolled down, buzzing just a little bit behind the wheel. Nothing but him in the long stretch of sand and cacti, driving and driving and driving with no one else around.

That was paradise. Sounded like paradise, anyway. Headed up to the Grand Canyon for the weekend to see Amy after her shift at the diner. Back when things were easier.

Back when things weren't this.

The TV was on in the motel, playing the news. Everyday it was the fucking news. Matt wanted to go to sleep and just never wake up, but he opened his eyes and glanced over at the clock.

He'd been out for three hours. Something that smelled like guilt made him shove the warm blankets down to his waist and sit up groggily.

Matt was running on empty. But for some reason, he kept going.

Matt swung his legs over the side of the bed, shaking his head to himself as he grabbed his goggles off the bedside table. His breath was rank, he was sweaty, and he was still exhausted.

He fitted the goggles back over his eyes, walking to his duffel bag strewn beside the TV shelf. The bag was already unzipped, lying open like a body in the middle of an autopsy. He thought briefly about shooting up again, just to feel like he was back in the dream one last time, but decided against it.

He could do that tonight. After Mello went to sleep.

Now was awake time.

Matt grabbed his toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. He didn't pack soap. He was using the hotel shit, but he forgot to bring it.

Whatever. Water was better than nothing.

"You're up," Mello said coolly. His voice set a note of dread into Matt's brain. Another _here comes_. "You feel better rested?"

Matt looked up from his bag. "Not really," he said honestly. "Did you sleep?"

"Yeah, a little."

Matt nodded, largely disinterested, and grabbed the corner of the shelf to hoist himself up, his bones creaking the way up. He walked across the room to the bathroom, turning on the flickering lights to brush his teeth.

His face looked gnarly in the tiny mirror. Bruised with yellows and greens under ashen skin. He looked away and shoved the toothbrush into his mouth, scrubbing out all the shit from his tongue. All the chow mein and the cigarettes and the—

Matt spat, the foamy paste tinged with blood as it rolled down the sink.

Fuck. He needed to get cigarettes still.

He should have just stayed asleep.

Matt walked back out after he was done, glancing at the TV as he sat back down on the bed. His breath was minty-fresh, and he had to do another convenience store run.

Food, essentials, maybe some soap would be good.

He pulled his boots off the carpet and set them upright, sliding his feet inside.

"Last night, at the New York Centurion Hotel Downtown," the news reporter said on the news. Matt looked up. "Daniel Spingola, aged nineteen, was found slain in one of the rooms. He was a loving son, a high school basketball star, and—"

The TV screen had a close-up headshot of Danny, smiling widely, his hair longer and curlier than when Matt had met him. Testimonials had written themselves over the screen. _The world is a darker place without our Danny_.

"The suspects are still at large. We now have information that there were two suspects, not one, two suspects who fled the scene. Both of them were around 5'7"-5'9" tall. There is no other physical description available. If anybody has information, please call—"

A phone number flashed up onscreen. Before Matt could see clearly, the channel flipped to a nature documentary.

Matt looked over to Mello, holding the remote controller with an outstretched arm, poised like a gun.

Mello looked back at him, expressionless. "Are you heading out?"

"Yeah," Matt said, dropping the boot back onto the carpeted ground with a muted thump. "I was gonna get some cigarettes at the convenience store." He paused, adding out of politeness, "You want anything?"

Mello nodded. "Soap."

"Yeah, that's on the list," Matt responded. He was going to get the cheapest soap there, and Mello wasn't going to bitch about it.

"You should get something for your car," Mello added, putting the remote down on the bed beside him. "Car paint. At least something for the bullet holes."

There it was. Matt sighed again, scratching his head. "Yeah. I will."

On the screen, two seals flopped around on the bright white snow, eeking and ooking. The voiceover narrated, "The Antarctic fur seal is enjoying a nice day out in the sun with his mate…"

Matt wished that was him. He grabbed his boot again, putting it on his other foot. He zipped it up and glanced back up at the end of the bed as something caught his eye.

His heart sunk and his stomach churned. The dress shirt and the black slacks sat there, the collar still reeking of Axe body spray.

Blood on the sheets. Blood on the carpet.

Blood all over Matt's hotel bed.

Danny was nineteen. The same age as Matt. If Matt had died last night, there wouldn't be any testimonials. They might find a MySpace photo of him from London, back when he still used MySpace, but that was it.

_Harry Sachz, a Louisiana native, died alone in his home from a heroin overdose a week ago. He had no friends, no family, no girlfriend. The neighbor found him after she complained that her apartment started to smell…_

"I can't believe we killed that guy," Matt said aloud, before he could even stop himself. He looked back at Mello, who glanced over at him. "Danny, I mean."

Mello didn't respond.

"He was our age," Matt continued, unable to raise his voice above a quiet mumble. He didn't know if Mello could hear him over the TV. "He had a girlfriend in a sorority. Whole life ahead of him and whatnot."

"He was a criminal," Mello replied.

"Yeah? And what does that make us?"

Mello kept staring at him, but he didn't say anything back. He moved his laptop off of his thighs, shutting the cover.

Matt read it as a sign of respect. All things considered, especially coming from Mello.

"He told me about his nonna," Matt said. "Like, she lived in Little Italy, and he was going back to her place last night to visit her."

"That was a lie."

"I know," Matt responded defensively. "I know. I know it was a lie."

The nature documentary continued in the silence. The Antarctic fur seals had a mating season between November to January. The most spectacular breeding grounds were in South Georgia.

"Just," Matt said, in the silence. "I can't believe it. It feels so wrong."

"There's no such thing as wrong," Mello replied coolly.

Matt frowned.

"He was the enemy," Mello said, his voice chilly, serious. There was a Near-like quality to it, empty of emotions like he was reading from a fact sheet. "He was sent out to kill me. He saw my face. It was either him, or us."

Matt stared at him, speechless. He wanted to say something to refute it, but he couldn't find the words.

Mello was so matter-of-fact about it that it was scary. Matt wanted to ask just how high Mello's body count was to be able to talk like this at nineteen, but he didn't.

Too high for Matt to know. He didn't want to know.

"Do you know how old L was when he died?" Mello asked suddenly.

Matt shook his head.

"Twenty-five," Mello answered proudly. "Far too young for someone as brilliant as he was."

There was a resolute expression on Mello's face. Calmer and cooler than a cucumber.

Suddenly Matt remembered when he'd last seen that expression, the night Mello first met up with him again in that bar in Atwater Village. _I'm glad you aren't dead._

It set in belatedly that Mello was only here because Kira didn't kill him, because the explosion didn't kill him that night. Because Danny didn't kill him, because all those guys in cars kept missing when they shot.

Matt was glad Mello was still alive, too.

Matt breathed in. Mello was staring at him. No power games. Openly, calmly, respectfully. Like when they were kids.

But they weren't kids anymore. Matt knew that. Their childhoods had been over before it even began.

Matt shook his head, shrugging as he pulled up his boots. "Yeah," he said, softly. "I guess you're right."

Mello nodded, breaking their eye contact. "I am," he responded. "I know I am."


	26. Chapter 26

That night, Mello couldn't sleep.

The lights were off. It was late. Matt was sleeping soundly in the bed beside him, his snoring loud enough to wake their next door neighbors.

He was lucky he could sleep. Mello was not. Even if he tried to close his eyes, something kept waking him up.

A lingering thought. Something to do. Something to review.

Something over the horizon, waiting for him to seize it.

The TV stopped playing anything worthwhile past midnight. Night soaps and cop dramas, another death onscreen. Infomercials and static, flashing over the patterned wallpaper.

Mello was tired. He stared in a trance at the TV screen, watching a fat woman make cherry pies.

Mello hated doing nothing.

There was so much left in the case, but his legs were severed. Baptist's men stretched all over New York City, looking for him. They knew what to look for now, and Matt was an accomplice and a threat. Mello didn't want to find out how high the bounty had become.

He couldn't show his face to anybody else, or he was dead on arrival.

He'd spent the night scouring news reports about the Centurion Hotel murder, cleaning up the leads. No suspect descriptions were available, which meant the CCTV footage was unusable. He'd paid for his stay in cash, and he'd checked in under a pseudonym he never used.

It was a dead end for the cops. But it still meant that neither of them could move around in Manhattan anymore. Not with the blood on their hands.

Not with Matt seconds away from breaking.

Mello didn't blame him. He knew the first murder was always the most difficult. Pulpy necks, broken jaws. Wammy's never did prepare them for the amount of blood that a person spilled, even with all the crime scene pictures they had to pore over as children.

Twelve pints was just a number until it was all over the ground.

No amount of crime ever made it easier. It only made murder swifter.

Still, Mello wanted to move. The SPK had settled, and connection to the NPA was reestablished. Hal could only tell him to stay put, but that wasn't good enough. The words meant nothing except to keep quiet until the storm had passed.

Mello had nowhere to put his hands or his thoughts when the world kept moving around them.

Kira still killed. The murders were in the tens of thousands, steadily gaining day by day.

Mello couldn't afford to wait.

Matt snorted and rolled over, mumbling something in his sleep. The woman on TV moved her cherry pie into the oven and set a timer. Mello flipped the channel, settling for a cop show. A man in a suit lived out the fantasy that Mello called his life.

Mello hated that Near had open contact with Kira. Near always had his finger on the pulse. He had the protection of the government, though it came to bite him in the ass two days ago. He had money and resources. He had contact with the suspects and all the information.

All Mello had was a hunch and an order. _Don't go anywhere, we'll be right back._

An engine peeled into the parking lot outside of the motel. Mello ducked out of habit, slithering his hand underneath his pillow for his gun.

The mob was unlikely to find them in Jericho. Matt had duct-taped the bullet holes as a last-ditch attempt before he went to sleep. It still didn't stop Mello's heart from racing as the faint car lights outside faded with the purring engine.

Suddenly, it was too quiet in the night. Matt's snores were too loud.

The car doors outside opened and slammed shut. A woman and a man were talking, their voices growing louder. The woman was giggling and the man was laughing.

Footsteps up the staircase. Mello grabbed his gun. Shoes clanged on the second floor landing, getting closer and closer to their door.

The footsteps stopped a few feet away. The door beside them unlocked. They faded away, behind the motel room door, their voices still audible through the thin wall.

"You're so drunk!" a woman's voice shrieked. A deep voice responded, laughing.

Just a whore and her john.

Mello pushed himself off the cheap linen, resting on his elbows. Matt was still snoring, unaware of the world around him. His head turned away from the TV screen, curled in on himself underneath the bed sheets.

Tonight things were settling down. Things were quiet and no news was the only blessing Mello needed. After he'd escaped narrowly with his life in Matt's hands — twice — he knew that silence was good. Silence was golden.

But tomorrow, Mello needed to start moving again. Taking apart the information he knew, piece it back together like an incomplete puzzle. Paint the car, change the plates. Buy some more clothes for the road.

Get farther, or closer, depending on Hal's next word.

Mello dropped his head onto the bedspread, staring at the TV screen as it played sideways. Bullets. The blood looked too red on TV.

Mello closed his eyes, listening to the cop show playing, volume too low to make out the words. The couple was fucking in the room next door. Mello hadn't slept until the morning sun in years.

* * *

The next evening was quiet. The setting sun shone westward over the beds and the carpet looked dirty in the light. They spent the day getting more food, more supplies, and waiting in the small motel room for their next move.

Hal still hadn't called, even if the SPK should have reestablished connection with L by now. Their base was most likely fully set up at this point.

Something must have happened. Mello just didn't know what it could be.

There was little else he could do but do sit-ups on the carpeted floor, willing the hours to pass until they could make their next move. He was already on his third coffee.

Matt was comfortable with the down time. He had left for a few hours to paint the car in the morning. It was drying now with a new fresh coat of chrome black paint. Ready to go.

Now he sat on his bed, slurping instant noodles from a paper cup and laughing at some video playing on his laptop.

He'd gotten into the habit of wearing his gloves since moving into the motel. Matt was careless, but he wasn't stupid.

Mello exhaled as he sat up from the ground, finishing his last set of sit ups. The air conditioning worked weakly from its spot over Mello's bed, its cool air barely reaching the tips of his toes.

The TV was playing news on mute, and Mello looked up, grabbing a water bottle from beside him as he wiped his brow.

The day had given no new information about the Centurion Hotel murder. It would probably go cold before Matt and Mello left the state. Instead, the news offered another name for the hour, another death in a prison cell.

A Venezuelan man who had thirty years for the trafficking and possession of narcotics died of a heart attack. Today's 5 PM death.

Mello frowned, swallowing the water and twisting the cap shut.

Thirty years was too light of sentence for Kira. With the rate of the kills, he must have been running out of cockroaches to stop.

Unless it was another Kira entirely.

Mello shook his head as he pulled himself up off the carpet, walking to the bathroom. He turned on the rusty tap and splashed water onto his face, washing off the sweat.

It was too quick to assume that it was a new Kira. A slight shift in his M.O. was barely any proof.

But if Kira was L, then it was natural for L to get nervous with all the eyes on him. Now would be the best time to pass on the notebook's powers to another before anybody looked at him too closely.

The cat and mouse chase never seemed to end.

Even if L passed on the notebook for someone else to be Kira in action, L was still the mastermind behind the operation.

The NPA had leads. Once Mello had his own two feet back, he would focus his—

_Ring. Ring. Ring_.

His phone.

Mello turned around, wiping his face as he paced back to the bedroom. His cell phone flashed as it vibrated on the bedside table.

Matt set the noodles on the ground, wiping his mouth as he watched. Mello sat down on his end of the bed and leaned over to grab his cell phone, flipping the cover up. "Talk," Mello answered.

Hal's voice came like a life raft. "Are you still in Jericho?"

"Yes."

"I have some information," she said. "An NPA agent came to visit us this afternoon."

Mello quirked a brow. "You mean Mogi?"

"No," she answered. "Another agent named Aizawa."

Mello looked at Matt. Matt raised his eyebrows, and Mello gestured for him to find something to write with.

Matt typed a few things onto his laptop, and then nodded. Mello signed in British sign language. _AIZAWA_. Matt's fingers flew over the keyboard quickly in response as Hal continued, "Near told L and the rest of the NPA earlier that Kira had killed Mogi. They believed him."

Another one of Near's mind games. "What happened then?" Mello asked, pulling his leg up to his side. He nodded to the chocolate bar on the bedside table, and Matt reached over, throwing it at him.

Mello caught it, ripping the wrapper with one hand in time to hear Hal's response. "Aizawa came down to talk to L. Something had bothered him about a former suspect, when the NPA worked with L."

Mello narrowed his eyes, taking a bite of the chocolate bar. Matt stared at him, mouthing. _Speaker phone_.

Mello shook his head. The walls were too thin here.

"Two people were imprisoned for fifty days," she continued, her voice flooding over the other end. "They were released after the killings continued. They were exonerated when L and the NPA caught Kyosuke Higuchi of Yotsuba Group in October of 2004."

So he'd been right. L had suspected the original Kira.

Mello signed to Matt, watching as he typed without looking. _2 SUSPECTS. 50 DAYS. HIGUCHI YOTSUBA. 2004._

"They used the 13-day rule to exonerate both of them."

_13 DAYS_. Of course. Kira knew that the task force would believe all the rules in the notebook. "Why after fifty days?" Mello asked.

"They were released after the NPA pressed L, since the killings continued."

"And when did they find out about the rule?"

"After Higuchi was captured."

The chocolate melted, thick with his spit. The arrest was planned.

Mello signed _FAKE RULES_. Matt squinted, typing. "Did Kira volunteer to be captured?" Mello asked.

"Yes," she answered, after a short pause. "Yes. Both Kira suspects volunteered."

Mello signed it as quickly as he could, _VOLUNTEER_. Kira's plan to appear innocent.

Mello asked, "Did L release them without proof?"

"No. L had set up a stunt."

_STUNT._

"The deputy director brought both of the Kira suspects out of confinement and told them that they'd be executed, and then he would kill himself. The NPA and L decided that if they were Kira, they would kill the chief before he killed them."

Mello frowned, cracking another piece of chocolate with his teeth. "Soichiro?"

"That's right," Hal replied. "Soichiro Yagami."

_SOICHIRO_. Mello swallowed, taking another bite of the chocolate. "Why Soichiro?"

Hal paused for a long second. Mello narrowed his eyes at her silence.

"I don't know," she said finally.

Mello could smell her lie. It meant that Near knew.

He just wasn't telling him.

"Anyhow," she said, changing the subject quickly. "Aizawa and Mogi are on their way back to LA now. We've sent Gevanni to drive them."

Mello snapped his fingers at Matt, drawing his attention. "Which flight?"

"AA302. Seats 26A and 26B."

He signed it as she continued, "They'll be at the airport at 5 o'clock. We'll keep in touch."

Mello nodded, looking over at Matt again. Matt turned the laptop towards him, thick block letters over the screen. _DEPARTURE: 6:30PM JFK._

"Yes," Mello responded, nodding to himself. "We will, Hal."

He hung up. Matt nodded at him, tilting his head in question as he turned the laptop back to face himself. "Back to LA?"

Mello nodded, throwing his cell phone down to the bed. His blood was pumping quickly, high off the work out, three cups of coffee and a phone call. "Check the flight availability to see if there are seats leftover."

Matt's fingers flew over the keyboard, tapping rapidly. Mello wiped the rest of his sweat and moved off the bed, sliding open the bedside drawer for his belongings.

"Pretty much empty," Matt responded. "You want me to get us tickets?"

Mello nodded, grabbing his wallet from his back pocket. He lifted a card and flung it onto Matt's bed, where it landed on his pillow. "Use this card," he said. "It's probably got enough loaded on it for two tickets."

"Where do you want us to sit?"

"You a few seats beside them, and I'll take a few seats behind." Mello replaced his wallet in his back pocket, drinking the rest of the water in the plastic bottle. "Make sure they're in plain view."

Mello wrapped up his chocolate bar, taking a look around the room. No need to bleach for fingerprints. They were both wearing gloves. Maybe a quick scan for stray hairs if they had enough time.

He glanced at the clock. 3:58 PM.

"Name?" Matt asked.

"Sebastian Black," Mello responded quickly. He looked up, watching Matt type furiously into his keyboard. "When you've got the tickets, pack your things. We're leaving in half an hour."

* * *

The airport was busy, especially around rush hour. Tourists trailed in and out of the front entrance, almost too crowded to see individual heads. Mello snapped a piece off his chocolate bar as he grabbed the wheel, staring down every car and license plate that passed them by against the glaring light of the sun.

They were waiting for the NPA members to arrive by an SPK car for the AA302 flight this evening. At the Arrival Hall in JFK.

The SPK was likely tracking the NPA as well, but Mello was eager for any lead he could get. He was ready to leave New York City behind and find his footing again.

The information that Hal had given them earlier in the evening was detrimental to the current L's innocence. Mello knew, beyond reasonable doubt, that Kira's original arrest was planned.

Kira had baited real L to Higuchi. He'd used the task force and the real L as a smokescreen to regain possession over the notebook.

The answer lay now in Soichiro Yagami, the missing piece of the puzzle. He knew the suspect. He was willing to die for the suspect if he was guilty.

All of the answers awaited them back in LA.

The street clock by the arrivals entrance struck 5 PM.

Like clockwork, a sleek black car with tinted windows drove past their car, braking to a halt in front of the entrance. The SPK car must have noticed them sitting there. They dropped the men off in plain sight, the two Japanese men ducking out of the back doors with trench coats and no carry-on luggage.

Mello sat up, narrowing his eyes behind his sunglasses. Matt joined him, leaning out of his seat.

"That's our guys," Matt said.

"What about the other NPA agent?" Mello asked, watching as the men stood around the arrivals door, talking to one another. They looked around them, staring up at the sign above the entrance.

"Not here," Matt answered.

The men started moving towards the entrance, blending into a throng of tourists with luggage carts. "Follow them in," Mello said.

Matt nodded. "You want me to grab a bag?"

"I'll take them."

Matt opened the car door, but then stopped, jerking back. "What about my car?"

Mello rolled his eyes. "I'll deal with the car. Now hurry."

Matt shook his head to himself as he got up, slamming the door shut behind him. Mello watched as Matt shoved his hands through his vest pockets and walked through the automatic doors, his vest zipped up to his chin.

He disappeared through the glass.

Mello wrapped the chocolate back and threw it into the empty passenger seat. Near was giving him a free bone for helping the SPK out with the fake rules. If coming to New York was the price he had to pay to get this much, then hell, Mello was happy with the deal.

Mello revved the engine, driving into the bright evening, a thin slice of the moon glinting on the opposite side of the orange sun in the sky. A plane flew overhead, low on the ground, its red navigation lights flashing as it ascended into the clouds above.

Mello adjusted his sunglasses, easing out of the kiss-and-ride to the airport parking garage.

This was it.

They were so fucking close to the finish line. Mello could taste it on his tongue.

Victory and revenge.


End file.
